March Madness

Yesterday was the most stressful day of parenting David and I have ever had.

Rage Against the Machine

Johnny's been on a bender since Friday. Not a drinking spree, but an inexplicable raging spree where he's just impossible and hates everything, even his favorite things, including everyone in our family. We've been told numerous times over the past 5 days, that "I HATE these shoes, and I HATE that pizza. It's YUCKY! I HATE everyone in this family and you're not my FRIENDS anymore!! I HATE your new car, Mommy, and I HATE my backback" AHHHHHHHH!! The more he cries and rages, the more it sets Grace off and she starts throwing and hitting. How old do boys have to be before being shipped off to boot camp?

Did you hear the one about the constipated Mathematician? He worked it out with a (#2) pencil.

Not until Monday did I notice Johnny mentioning that his stomach and bottom hurt. That means he has to go #2. I guess it's been building up since Friday, I honestly can't remember; but finally it all came to a head. Grace woke up yesterday morning crying that her ear hurt and that she thinks a dragon bit it. (She also thinks a spider bit her under her lip causing a sore spot that I mistook for pizza sauce and rubbed relentlessly to no avail). I decided to take both kids to the doctor. We were 15 minutes early for our 10:00 AM appointment, and the doctor did not see us until 10:45 AM. Johnny cried for a solid hour saying his "butt hurts" and he "want(s) to go home" and "I don't want to get a shot," all the while Grace, the truly sick one, kept running off, not listening to me, and getting increasingly fed up with Johnny. I tried numerous times to gently force Johnny on the john, but he was having none of it. He was in a rage! And a panic. When we finally got put in our little room, he just wanted out. Every time he opened the door, a nurse closed it. His crying was getting to everyone else, too.

The Biology of Behavior

I'm a full believer in the biology of behavior and that kids act how they feel. I had figured out by now that Johnny's rages were due to his extreme discomfort and fear of needing to poop. We were all desperate, and when the doc finally came in to see us, I asked if he could have an enema. She said, "No, that would be too traumatic." Getting it all out in a doctor's office where they are equipped with cleaning supplies and extra hands for me couldn't have been more traumatic than what happened next.

On our way to the CVS drugstore to drop off the prescription for a powdered laxative, Johnny fell asleep. My eyes welled up with tears under my sunglasses as I drove the kids around for 30 minutes. My boy finally got some relief, which meant we all did.

Johnny Rotten

He woke up just as I was sandwiched between two cars in the CVS drive-thru line. OMG. He flipped. He was screaming and panicking and saying he had to poop in his pants. I told him to go ahead, that I wouldn't be mad. I had to carefully scoot out of line and park at the nearest establishment with a bathroom. It was an ice-cream parlor in our neighborhood shopping center. I dragged both kids out, kicking and screaming and went straight to the single bathroom, the one we monopolized for the next 30 minutes.

Johnny had pooped and peed himself, and he wasn't near finished. I took his shoes and socks off, underwear and jeans, and began washing those off while attempting to keep him on the potty to catch the rest of the debris. It was a complete mess. Poop was everywhere on him and the floor. Meanwhile, Grace was in full-on 'out-of-sync-child-mode' and started flipping the light switch on, off, on, off, on, off, on, off, on, off. I asked her twice to leave the lights on. On, off, on, off, on, off. I lost it and can't repeat what I did and said next; Grace cried, but by God, the lights stayed on. Many many paper towels, toilet flushes, and words of encouragement later, Johnny was basically cleaned up. But his jeans and underwear were completely soaked. I tried tying his sweatshirt around his waist, but it didn't provide enough coverage. I had on a trench coat and being the ever resourceful mom that I am, told Johnny that we were going to do something kind of different and kind of funny. We were going to dress him up like ET in Mommy's big jacket and walk out to the car. No one would have to know that he was naked from the waist down on the inside. I've never seen a humiliated 3-year old until yesterday. Johnny couldn't wrap his advanced-for-his-years head around walking around in Mommy's coat with no underwear on. I scooped him up, all 45 pounds of rough and tumble boy, and ordered a pint of cookies-n-cream ice cream. Until that moment I had successfully given up desserts for Lent, but by God, we were all having ice cream for lunch.

Johnny's in the basement mixing up the medicine...

We got home, and I mixed up the first dose of Johnny's laxative that he was to take in his drinks 3 times a day for the next 10 days. As I turned the kids over to David for his shift before I salvaged a few hours at work and the gym, he said, "Good job today. That's all I ever wanted in a wife--one who would be able to deal with days like this." We burst out laughing.

When I made it back home at 7:00 PM, the house was quiet and calm, and David was tucked in between our angelic children reading them one last bedtime story. I thought, "That's all I ever wanted in a husband--one who is capable of doing the nighttime routine by himself while I was blowing off steam at the gym."

The Devil Wears Osh Kosh

I was completely erroneous in my assessment that David's shift had been much easier than mine. Over ice-cold Newcastles (that have never before tasted so good), David shared his version of the afternoon's events. After an few outings in the car (where, thankfully, both kids fell asleep), David stopped at a gas station and told the kids they could each pick a snack. They both wanted a bag of cheetos. Johnny specifically asked for fiery-hot cheetos and Grace specifically asked for plain cheetos. Once the kids were safely strapped back in their seats and heading home, they tore into their bags of cheetos. It only took a millisecond for Johnny to realize that he did not like the fiery-hot cheetos because they were sting-y. "I HATE these cheetos, Daddy! Turn the car around and go back and get me a different bag!" David says nothing and keeps driving home. "I HATE you, Daddy!" as he kicks the back of David's seat and his shoes fly off.

Johnny was sent straight to his room, and when David opened up the door about 10 or 15 minutes later, Johnny was smoking a cigarette! (When David told me this, I laughed so hard I spit beer halfway across the living room).

A couple of minutes before bath, Johnny was in the living room and told David he needed to poop. David told him to go to the bathroom. Johnny didn't and pooped in his pants (again) and this time it got all over our brand new rug. I can't repeat what David said that he said, but he yelled at Johnny like I had yelled at Grace earlier. Later at bathtime, Johnny had to pee, and as he successfully peed in the potty, poop came out the other end and got all over the floor and the newly cleaned bath rug that I had just washed because of Grace's bloody nose the day before. David told me that he literally put his hands to the Heavens and asked, "Why? Why do I have to put up with this? Why is this part of my job description?"

Shaking his head, David said to me, "It's a new day. We've entered a new day of parenting."

You don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows.