This is the wrapper from the band aid that goes on mama’s pee pee.
Looking back, I think the highlight of my evening was when Wyatt came out of my bathroom, holding the stray wrapper from one of my maxi pads, and announcing his find to the dinner table. Whose guests included my 86 year old grandfather, who was recently baptized as ultra-conservative with a touch of Tea Party, so I’m not entirely sure I’m even allowed to be having my liberal period out in the open.
In related news, I am obviously not awesome at explaining menstruation to small children who bust into the bathroom while I’m playing Angry Birds.
Having children is equal parts humiliating, heavenly, hilarious and heartbreaking.
A few days ago, Wyatt peed his pants while we were at the park with my friend and her three boys, all of which are older than he is.
Even though Wyatt is perfectly potty trained in every way, I think the process of me potty training Gigi and stuffing her full of M&Ms has him confused and a bit regressed, which I am sure is perfectly normal, and I am not concerned in least thankyouverymuch. I mean, even I am questioning my willingness to wipe myself front to back with out some sort chocolate carrot and applause afterward.
Gigi is going to be so disappointed when she find out going potty is just a boring process of getting rid of your mushed up food, unless you do something completely fun like eat nothing but corn for an entire week or drink a bottle of hot sauce, in which case, I recommend keeping an ice pack next to the toilet for in between pushes.
Regardless, he wet his pants by accident, and it was totally noticeable, and no, I didn’t bring any other clothes with me, because I’ve evolved to that level of parenting, where I am all meh we’ll be fine, it’s not like we’re preparing for the rapture, everyone wear two pairs of underwear and grab a canned good and meet me in the car, wait…why are we getting in the car again?
I was quickly alerted to the situation by the oldest boy, who came over laughing hysterically, yelling that Wyatt had peed his pants, and it was obviously the most hilarious event this boy had ever witnessed, and as I got up to make my way over to the play castle, the boy followed me over, yelling to high heavens about how gross it was, and how he was hiding in the corner of the castle because HE PEED IN HIS PANTS YOU KNOW LIKE A BABY.
Never mind that I have it on good authority this boy slept on rubber sheets until his ninth birthday, or that he used to sleep naked with his basset hound while his dad went on an extended work trip to Germany, aka, when he left his family for two weeks to go off and “find himself” in Miami with a Vietnamese nail shop owner, clearly, my kid was the weirdo.
But, this is still new for me. Seeing my kid, who, in my opinion, is fucking awesome, being bullied or teased.
It’s like being punched in the chest by a train.
Jude’s first year of preschool, he was invited to his first friend birthday party. I was totally excited, because at the time, I was still doing a mental checklest of all the Stepford-like things that I wanted to accomplish with this whole motherhood thing, and taking my kids to birthday parties while the parents stood around drinking iced tea and chatting about school gossip and whose child looked the most like a GAP ad, was one of those things.
Never mind that when I got there, it was a family birthday party that classmates just also happened to be invited to, and that we were expected to just drop our children off and leave, even though I don’t even really leave the kids alone with Andy thanks to the time I came home to find them all drinking Red Bull and watching Kung Fu in their underwear, or that Jude was only three and so painfully shy, I had weekly conferences with his teachers about his inability to speak or make eye contact with others.
When I left him holding the bright pink bag filled with polka dot tissue paper and a glittery My Little Pony, he was standing in the corner of their living room, facing the wall. I cried as I got into my car to circle the block for an hour, before going back to retrieve him with some made up excuse about family plans later that day. When I walked into the party, Jude was still standing, facing the corner, holding the bright pink bag. The other kids were all laughing and running around and playing. But, not Jude.
It broke my heart in a way that was more painful than any teenage breakup or mid-season show cancellation.
And, as I made my way into the play house to find Wyatt humiliated and being teased and laughed at, hiding the front of his pants from all the kids, I am crushed.
Wyatt is hilarious, and athletic, and a complete ladies man. Waitresses, nurses, the snotty girl at the coffee shop who rolls her eyes at me when I order a smoothie, even though not everyone likes coffee, now if she could please wipe some of the white eyeshadow off her eyebrows, start throwing yogurt and strawberry product in the blender, and stop acting like her credit score is better than mine because she speaks fake coffee Italian, love him.
I’ve hated other people’s children before. Like the unsupervised ones at the zoo who yell obscenities at the caged animals, or the ones who obnoxiously call people gay or fags or retards, or the especially sneaky ones who dart out in front of my car in the Target parking lot while I am otherwise distracted by my cell phone and trying to remove the cellophane from the case of the new Glee CD, but this is the first time in my life I have wanted to punch someone else’s child.
Since, I obviously can’t do that, what do I do? Do I pee my pants in solidarity, because I can pretty much do that on demand these days, but I was wearing tankini bottoms in lieu of clean underwear, was this worth a week of Monistat?
Do I scold my friend’s kids for being assholes, then deal with her being passive aggressively bitchy with me for the next two weeks until she forgets about the whole thing when she needs to borrow one of my shirts?
Do I scoop Wyatt up in my arms like the baby he still is to me, and whisk my children home where I will lock all the doors, buy a Homeschooling for Dummies book from Amazon and try to coax my breastmilk back in?
Just as I was cringing at the thought of a twelve year old with molars latching on, Jude walks into the castle, pushing the older kids out of the way, telling them to shut up. He grabs Wyatt by the hand and asks if we could leave, because the park was stupid and for babies, and he wanted milkshakes, make from milk that, thankfully, wasn’t going to have to come from my own breasts, totally laced with Xanax and cheap wine.
I had forgotten about that rule.
The I can fight, bite, pinch, pull hair, mock and scream horrible, horrible things at my brother, but if I catch anyone else doing it, I will fucking eat your face off and piss on your skull rule.
It’s a special genetically shared secret all siblings have, because God knows he has to make you guys like each other by the time your parents die, or you’ll spend ten years in litigation over priceless family jewels and life insurance payouts. Or, in our children’s case, the complete DVD set of Ally McBeal, some commemorative Will and Kate wedding plates, and a fifth generation davenport.
There is this sappy quote I read once, probably written by some lady who had twenty kids and filled out a baby book for each of them, as opposed to just shoving a US Weekly from the week they were born under the inside cover, totally promising to fill it out later, about how when you decide have children, you are making the decision to let your heart walk around outside of your body.
It’s pretty much exactly like that. Only weirder.