Picker Your Battles

I've learned a lot these past few weeks. 

If you're boobs are leaking in public, for example, another, sympathetic mom will most likely alert you to this fact, and possibly offer up her own embarrassing anecdote, just to make you feel less...well...sheepish. And wet.

And speaking of wet, another thing I've learned is that little infant boys don't always pee in a trajectory that will hit you, your curious daughter, and the nearest wall-hanging with the kind of water pressure that would make a fireman envious. Sometimes their pee is real sneaky-like (infant boys', not firemen's). You'll be changing him, quickly wiping and applying the necessary ointments and replacing the diaper like your diffusing a bomb, you'll snap the little outfit back up, all proud of yourself that you dodged another bullet, as it were. 

But when you pick up your grunting little angel and cradle him in your arms, you pause. What the....his back is wet. Why is his back wet? Is he sweaty? Did I lay him down in a puddle of water? What the F is going on?

What's going on is your son just performed what I like to call The Velociraptor. It's not the pee you see that's the problem. It's the pee that you didn't even know was there.... It's the pee he does off to the side, while you're too distracted by the prospect of getting a full-on golden shower to even notice what's happening. Plus, your son is looking at you all wide-eyed and alert, beguiling you with his innocence, that leaves you completely unaware that he's busy ruining another adorable outfit you've just put on him. Little brat.

However, I'd say the most important lesson I've learned as I stumble around the house in a bleary-eyed state of semi-consciousness, is Pick Your Battles has been elevated to a whole new level.

For instance....I decided to be all ambitious the other day and actually take all three children and the dog on a walk before I had to take Rollie to school (which, thankfully, has proven to be far less traumatic than last year...so far anyway). I strapped Finn into a baby bjorn, shod my two older kids, grabbed the dog leash (after almost forgetting to attach the dog to it), and we were off. Why I decided I could do this without a stroller--or a shot of rum--is beyond me. I can't even blame pregnancy brain anymore, although surely there must be some follow-up ailment to account for questionable post-partum decision-making. Possibly hormones, possibly breastfeeding, possibly the fact that I tried on a pair of previously baggy, pre-pregnancy pants on the other day and couldn't pull them up over my ass. Which was not where I carried Finn, if memory serves.

So anyway, I chose to undertake this incredible journey around the block on garbage day. Add this to the fact that Rollie has been really into the show American Pickers lately, and you start to get the idea of where this walk was headed.

My entourage and I crossed the street and headed up a sidewalk that was practically impassible because of the amount of just...stuff piled up at the end of one driveway. Cardboard boxes, old wicker shelving, plastic bags of various sizes and shapes, broken lamps, broken picture frames and assorted other broken items that appeared to be circa the Carter administration. Minus the vicious, attack bunny-rabbit.

As I tried to determine the best way to steer my little ducklings around the pile, Rollie slowed down and eyed the items with keen interest. It's the same look he often gives these crappy plastic handcuffs that hang in the cereal aisle at the grocery store (which he has informed me he would like to buy so he could use them to handcuff his crush and lock her in his bedroom the next time she comes over....yeah, I know....aye-yay-yay).

Rollie: What is all this stuff, Momma?
Me: It's just garbage, honey.
Rollie: Why is it so much?
Me: I don't know...maybe they cleaned out their garage recently.
Rollie (now stopped directly in front of the giant pile and scrutinizing an especially tacky, gold-colored reindeer): ...Look, Momma.
Me: Yeah, I see it.
Rollie: Why are they throwing it away?
Me: I don't know. It looks like it's missing an antler.
Rollie: It's for Christmas.
Me: So it is. Come, let's keep moving.
Rollie: ...I'm gonna pick that reindeer.
Me: Oh, Rollie, come on. Don't go rooting through other people's garbage.
Rollie: But it's a decoration. We could put it in our yard.
Me: Wouldn't that be lovely?
Rollie: We could keep it out there until it rains, and then I could put it in my room.
Me: Rollie, I really don't want you to touch any of that stuff. Now come on or you'll be late for school.
Rollie (still not moving from his spot, transfixed on the golden reindeer, which now that the morning sun has hit it, is beginning to sparkle like a diamond in the rough): Look, Momma. I'm that guy from American Pickers.
Me: No, Rollie, you are not that guy from American Pickers. That stuff is gross and dirty and full of germs and if we don't keep moving you won't have time to play with any toys in your class before school starts. So let's GO.

Finally Rollie dragged himself away from the garbage pile and kept walking, all the while talking about what a find that reindeer was and how badly he wanted it for his very own. And as if the gods of all that is tacky and hideous was smiling down upon my son, Finn started fussing, which soon escalated into crying and rooting around on my chest in a way that meant if I didn't whip out my boob in about two minutes I was in for some full-scale, red-faced goat-like inconsolable baby crying. Forget the fact that I literally fed the kid 20 minutes ago. And changed him. And already dealt with one Velociraptor sneak attack.

And so I had to make a U-turn and lead my crew back home. Which meant of course, walking past the gleaming reindeer.

Rollie: Look, Momma. The reindeer is still there.
Me: Yep.
Rollie: Don't you think Dadda would like that reindeer?
Me: If Dadda knew it came from the garbage he would put it right back in the garbage.
Rollie: But it's not even dirty or anything, Momma. It doesn't look like garbage. (Translation: we wouldn't have to tell Dadda it came from the garbage.)
Me (sighing as I try to convince Finn that the pacifier I'm holding in his yelling mouth is indeed my nipple): Rollie...I...oh, whatever.Fine. I don't care. But I'm not carrying that thing home.
Rollie: I'll carry it home.

And so it came to pass that I watched my son raid my neighbor's garbage and pull forth his prize: a sparkling, golden, one-antlered reindeer. I walked behind him, watching him proudly strut home with the  treasure tucked beneath his arm, the cheap gold-flecked paint flaking off on his school shirt. At one point he raised the reindeer over his head like a hockey player who'd just won the Stanley Cup.

Rollie: Look, Momma. He's pooping on me.
Me: Nice. Rollie.
Rollie: I'm gonna put this in the front yard so Dadda can see it when he gets home.
Me: I bet he'll love that.

One man's trash...

So yeah. Pick your battles. Was I about to get into a heated tete-a-tete with my son about taking a relatively innocuous (albeit ugly-as-sin) bit of abandoned Christmas decor for himself? Nah. Not when I was starting to sweat, with a fussy baby strapped to my chest and an old dog panting at the end of his leash and about to take a dump in the middle of someone's beautifully manicured yard. So what if the reindeer ended up among my hydrangeas? And that Jeff was pretty skeeved out when I told him where it came from (although his response was, You should have made him pick that Christmas tree stand out there--we could use a new one)? I consider this a win in my column.

Although my other lesson of the day is: Don't take the kids out for morning walks on garbage day.

One Mom's Trash

Elsa has developed a fascination with garbage.

Our kitchen garbage can sits beside the sporadically utilized Swiffer in our pantry.  Lately I've been catching Elsa in the middle of either pulling something from the trash or putting something inside it that doesn't belong.  I've found my sunglasses in there, covered in coffee grounds and banana slime.  I've fished out bottles, bracelets, and stuffed animals, and caught her removing empty packs of gum, rotten fruit and used tissues before, examining them as if enthralled that she's managed to score something so valuable that the rest of us had overlooked.

When I do stop her mid-raid, she'll look up at me and present her newfound treasure so proudly that I almost feel bad telling her how disgusting it is as I put it right back in the garbage can.  I almost want to say, Oh Elsa, what a beautiful half-eaten GoGurt!  What is it doing in the trash?  A piece like this belongs in the Smithsonian!

Now, when something goes missing, I automatically assume my little dumpster diver has deposited it in the garbage, and I will then have to decide if it's worth digging through the diapers and potato peelings to retrieve it.  (Unless of course, the missing item is either my iPhone or my keys, which I am now convinced are being constantly usurped by a herd of trolls that resides in my garage).

Sometimes, however, this presumption of mine is way off.

The other day I took the kids to the pediatrician for Elsa's 18-month well visit (as opposed to our visit two days prior, during which her doctor assessed--one hour and $25 later--that she was well enough for her well visit....?).  We were in the sparsely equipped and echoey-as-hell waiting room for a while, then relocated to the smaller waiting room with a paper-covered table and even fewer distractions and more forbidden objects.  Elsa proceeded to scream because I wouldn't let her stand in front of the heavy, might-burst-open-any-second, death trap of a door.  I let her carry on a bit longer than usual, hoping that perhaps the doctor would see us a little more quickly, but all this strategy did was cause Rollie to start yelling at her to be quiet.  And so I dug through the diaper bag for some entertainment.  I came up with a ubiquitous Matchbox car, a hair clip, a lollipop and an empty box of raisins.  If she were MacGyver she could have fashioned an explosive.

Then I turned my attention to Rollie, who was begging me to help him figure out how to work an app on my phone.  When I turned back around, I realized that all of the items I'd given Elsa had mysteriously disappeared.

Me: Elsa, where's the little car?
Elsa: Mmm?
Me: Elsa, where'd Rollie's little car go?
Elsa: Vroom vroom.
Me: Yes, I know that's how the little car goes.  Where'd it go?
Elsa pointed to the garbage can against the wall.
Me: You threw it in the garbage?
Elsa: Mmm?
Me: What about Mommy's hair clip?  Where's that?
Elsa pointed to the garbage again.
Me: You threw my hair clip away, too?
Elsa: Mmm?
Me (now striding across the room): Elsa, that wasn't garbage sweetheart.  You shouldn't throw stuff in here that's not garbage.
Elsa: No no no.
Me: Yeah.  No no no.  Little late for that.


I pushed down on the lid and peered inside the trashcan.  All I saw were balled up sheets of table-paper and discarded otoscope speculums.  On the gross-o-meter this was about a four, but still....I mentally crunched the numbers to see if the Gross-To-Want ratio is too high.  I hadn't used the hair clip in about a month, but that was because it had been buried in the bottom of the diaper bag.  Would I use it if I were to fish it out of this garbage pail?  Would I have to disinfect it first?  If I place it in boiling water, would it melt?  Would the fumes be toxic?  Would it ruin my cooking pot?  Ah, the questions a mom must ask herself at the pediatrician's office.....

I decided to go for it.  I mean, seriously, digging through crumpled paper and waxy ear speculums is probably the least disgusting thing I've done lately.  This is coming from a woman who recently cleaned up dog puke, kid puke and a dried frog carcass from her living room windowsill, all in the past week.  I removed the lid and began picking through the trash, figuring the hair clip and toy car must have sunk to the bottom.  But after rifling through every bit of garbage, I came up empty.

Me: Elsa, I thought you said you threw my hair clip away.
Elsa: Mmm?
Me: Well, it isn't in here.
Elsa toddled over the can and peeked inside as well.  Then she extended her chubby arm to start expertly digging through the garbage herself.
Me (pulling her arm back and replacing the lid): No no, Els.  No touch.  This is yucky.
Rollie (who suddenly decided me disciplining Elsa was far more interesting than the Light Saber app on my phone): Where's my car, Momma?
Me: I think Elsa threw it in the garbage, but I can't find it.
Rollie: Find it, Momma.
Me (sighing): Rollie, you have like, fifty million cars at home.  It's okay to lose one once in a while.
Rollie: But that was my favorite.
Me: You don't even know which one she threw away. Elsa, are you sure it's in the garbage?
Elsa responded by running back to the unguarded and grabbing at the handle.
Rollie: Baby Els wants to get out, Momma.
Me: I know.
Elsa screamed again.
Me (feeling like I was about to lose my freaking mind): All right, let's read a book.  Get over here right now and sit down and we'll all be civilized human beings for a change.

Of course, the doctor walked in as we were all seated, my children listening raptly like little angles as I read to them about how much fun the doctor's office can be (who writes this stuff??).  He probably figured we'd spent a perfectly happy forty minutes having story hour, and hadn't even noticed the passage of time.  I almost wished I'd had an ear speculum stuck in my hair, just to prove him wrong.

Oh yeah, as I was packing everyone back up to leave, I found the car and the hairclip in the front pocket of the diaper bag (along with the empty box of raisins and a now sticky, hair-covered lollipop).  Guess Elsa was just trying to screw with me, leading me to think she's tossed everything in the trash when I was busy paying attention to Rollie.  They sure learn the art of Jedi Mind-Manipulation early.  Must be all the cow hormones.  We are buying all organic from now on....