A Last Minute Escape

The stars aligned on Thursday and I actually peeled out of my driveway, completely alone. The smell of burned rubber filled my car, the radio blared and I had to check twice to make sure there really was an overnight bag resting in the empty back seat. EMPTY BACK SEAT!
I shuttered with glee at the thought of making it far enough away from my house that no matter how much diarrhea or fever or vomit, I couldn't possibly make it back in time to have to clean it up.
Along my drive I realized I hadn't been out of my house since last Saturday. That all of the Christmas Lights in our neighborhood had been taken down and boxed up for another year. That my holiday poinsettias on the front porch have been withered and dead for at least a week. That the year was 2009, I had been a parent now for over 4 years and the last time I had taken an overnight "vacation" (almost completely non-work related) without my children was 2005.
It was 1:07 in the afternoon and I had 28.5 hours to spend with my husband. I was picking him up at work and heading North for one night away.
Okay, so this getaway wasn't completely non-work related either, but with 28.5 hours away from the kids, John's 2 hour meeting didn't seem like much of a sacrifice for a corporate-paid escape. There was the 5 hour drive to Napa, the recommended hotel, the wine bar, the wine, the Spanish Tapas Restaurant, more wine, an ENTIRE night devoid of diapers, binkies, crying, midnight potty breaks, and then the blissful morning. Which I chose to spend standing butt naked in front of one of those terrible magnifying mirrors admiring all the age I had acquired since the last time I enjoyed more than 3 minutes alone in a bathroom. Why the hell do they put those things in hotel bathrooms? Like you need to know that your face has that many flaws???
Out of 28.5 hours, I spent 9.7 hours driving, talking, listening, laughing with my favorite adult and none of it involved singing the Firetruck song or twisting my torso into some tantra yoga pose to reach a dropped sippy cup. In 28.5 hours I did not change one diaper. For 6 hours I drank 4 glasses of excellent red wine (maybe five???). Over 28.5 hours I visited a public restroom 5 times and never once lifted a 40 pound toddler onto the toilet seat while barking the command, "Don't touch anything!" I put my makeup on both sides of my face and changed my earrings three times just because I could. I watched TV. I did not share my lipstick. I never once hunted down a Binky. I reminded myself exactly 4 times how nice it was to be alone with my husband. And for 1.75 hours I shopped, for myself, without a stroller or a hungry whining toddler. And for exactly 28.5 hours I felt absolutely no guilt.
I surely died and went to heaven. When I returned home I stepped out of my kid-free car a new person, a new mom, a new wife. This blissful, appreciative, enthusiastic me is lingering through the weekend. And who knows, maybe even for a year or two...that is, until I get another getaway like this one!


Queen Of The Crazies

I rocked up to a new hair salon yesterday with TWO kids in tow. You should have seen the look on the hairdresser's face!
The circumstances were unavoidable: one sick child, 2 inches of outgrown roots, and a babysitter who canceled only hours in advance (due to flu, of course). I couldn't CANCEL my appointment!!! I had to roll the dice.
Why not just shoot for the stars and drag my two kids into a hair salon for TWO hours?! How much worse could it really get, right?!
Right about the time I'm wrestling the stroller through the salon entrance with whining toddler in tow, a waft of nastiness encircles us from the vicinity of my stroller. And then there's this heavenly sound-like a choir of angels- and a bright white light and then, oh, it's a group of floating nuns wearing habits with a sign on them that reads "Board of Psychotic Mothers" who follows me into the middle of the lobby. And before my new hairdresser can so much as guffaw at her newest client, the Head Nun crowns me "Queen of The Crazies" and places a ginormous pink bow atop my outgrown roots.
Can you believe my luck?
And for the next two hours, at an outrageous rate $$$$$ I was on ultra mommy duty: Entertaining two children from my statuesque pose. Changing two explosive diapers before the hair dryer. Straining my neck to observe my children climbing their way to the top of the wash basin chairs, digging their fingernails into the leather, scraping their way to the crest of the mountain like two billy goats.
The salon is never going to allow us to come within 100 yards of this place!
How much do I leave for a tip so these women don't blacklist my name from every hair salon in the state????
What was I thinking? I'm stuck in this chair with strips of paper folded in my hair, a tent over my body, I'm sweating like a pig and I'm supposed to be ENJOYING THIS???Where did those little terrors go now??? ANA GET OUT OF THE TOILET!!!!!
All four hairdressers helped me with my things to get to my car. Wonder what that means?
I adjusted my giant pink "Queen of The Crazies" bow before falling into the driver's seat and speeding away. Of course, both girls were screaming.
What WAS I thinking?


The Flu Bug Strikes Again

For the past three days, each morning I awake, serve a light starchy breakfast, pour myself a cup of coffee and wait until my oldest, "The Poo Detective" alerts me of baby Ana's latest explosion. And for the past three mornings, the explosion has happened on one of our Pottery Barn Kids' Chairs. This is what it looks like before 7 am:
Ironically, this chair is called "The Anywhere Chair". And in our case, anywhere we put it, Ana finds it and explodes on it. Then, it no longer resembles itself anymore, anywhere.

So, I gulp down my coffee, roll up my sleeves and drag it outside to scrape, spray and disassemble it for washing. Its foamy white skeleton strewn around the yard while the Removable Upholstery is washed and cleaned. Every night, I put the darned thing back together again so it's ready for the next morning explosion.
The first day, we discovered that diapers aren't equipped for receiving copious amounts of fluid when introduced all at once, resulting in aforementioned explosion. The next day the milk in Ana's bottle went into her stomach as regular, fresh 2% milk, and in moments emerged again as giant curds with an accompanying white paste. Today, we were literally "back" on "the back end" explosions. At least I can say my life is not mundane.
This morning I carried her messy little back end in mid-air, so as not to touch me or anything else, directly to the bath tub and ran the water. Once she was cleaned up and settled in a shallow pool of soapiness, I dragged the chair outside for it's daily treatment (leaving Shelby in the bathroom to act as lifeguard).
When I returned, the "Poo Detective" quietly pointed to the bath while holding her nose. There was Ana, happily splashing away in a bubbly brown, chunky bath. If I ever catch this flu bug, I swear to you, he will pay!


Holy S%$!, It's Everywhere!

I have succumbed to the simple fact that my one year old is no longer suffering from the side effects of her flu shot. That diarrhea does not have the right to hang around for more than 4 days if it doesn't have a good reason. I cannot physically change 12 wet, gooey diapers before lunchtime and keep my appetite.
I have deemed my 4 year old daughter "The Poo Detective" because every time Ana explodes, Shelby is in charge of spotting it..."Eewww, mommy it's on her shirt!" and "Oh, no, mommy, it's on her back" and worse yet, "Oh, look, it's all over her chair!"
It's a sunny 80 degree day at the beach and my kids and I are holed up on the sofa in our pajamas, awaiting our next call to duty. When Ana gets "that look on her face" and I jump out of the way before holding her up in mid-air, running to the change table with Shelby, "The Poo Detective" following close behind yelling, "It's running down her legs!"


A Note of Thanks

Life is short. And getting shorter from what I presume. And so I want to take a moment to gush with gratitude for every person who reads this blog. I'm sure it is illegal to have as much fun as I have obsessing over my entries. And what a complete boost of confidence I receive from every COMMENT I read. Sometime, late at night, or just in a particularly low moment, I will log on to see if anyone commented to my latest entry. Oh, did I really say that out loud? I am pathetic. Well, thanks.