Seven Minutes.

As Rita sat wondering which of her siblings would feed her another whole grape next, despite the repeated “she will choke!” warnings, I decided which mess to clean first. I smelled the first on step 3 of the stairs and heard the second splatter with an “uh oh (indicating accident) /chuckle (indicating he’s still entertained) in the same spot. “Poop. Always, the poop” I prioritized as I grabbed the baby. It was a clean up on aisle “I’m never potty training!” where the carpet was confused for toilet paper and the bed sheet a toilet, and her hands were included just for fun. “Throw my diaper in the garbage, mom, and then, wash my hands,” she parented me. “Josie, you were supposed to be napping,” I said to her but more so, myself. “No, nap, Momma. Just poop.”


I’ve decided in moments when there is literal sh** spread generously all over favorite area rugs that anything I desire to say to a child the age of “I still poop on the floor,” is better left unsaid. “Just put it in the lawndy” she told me as I half scrubbed, half begged Rita to play with a toy of which she was really quite bored on the other side of the room as far away from the bacteria spread as a Curious Georgita allows.  “Make Daddy do it,” Josie suggested.  It’s an interesting thing, really, that a child can still struggle with diapers, but can grasp a practical understanding of the female power of manipulation just fine. 


“Stay here for one minute,” I said to her in the bath filled with less than one inch of water, as I ran down to assess the smoothie mess. Which brings me to my next nonpoint of the refrigerator and three year olds. In they go, up they climb, things they spill, leftover birthday cake they eat. The mess was bad, but not the worst I’ve seen so I handed him a paper towel and went to retrieve his bathing sister.


It was probably a 45-60 second time period spent alone. But, for a two year old hippie child who lives by her feelings and fun is always best mantra, its 44 seconds too many to be left alone with a cup and water in a tub, and for this, I’m an idiot. “The ceiling is leaking!!” smoothie man warned as I stared at the empty tub, flooded floor, grinning child, and an inch of tub water looks 20 when its covering a surface its not supposed to.  


I strapped on the wrong Dora Pull-up, which made her cry because the butterfly ones are not cool and I should know that she only likes the yellow flowers, and Rita asked to do the steps alone by jumping out of my arms almost breaking her neck, and in a sea of paper towels I saw a singular drop of water on top off what it looks like when James tries to clean up yogurt smoothie unattended. 

“I fixed the ceiling, mom. Can we make Popcorn now?”


Happy Thursday, Go Pirates. 

Hump Day Confessions with a side of blood soaked soapy zucchini bread

One Morning, 5 confessions, Happy Hump

Confessions of a Teenage Looking Drama Mom through which you can forget about that homemade cork board on Pinterest and feel better about yourself at my expense.

Pardon the typos as my fingers are bloody and dawning band aids with teddy bear and hearts, which are quite literally my two least favorite objects on the face of the planet but picking out band aids is a childhood privilege.

1. The morning began with aspirations higher than the laundry pile so I began there. As I folded tiny shirts and tinier dresses, the oldest requested my assistance with toilet paper and his derriere. The girls playing wildly with items too clean for their hands seemed occupied well enough to walk 5 steps for approximately 30-35 seconds to help their big brother with his toddler problem. James explained that he “pooped a lot, just like a big horse,” an image that aided my coffee and cereal to digest with ease and comfort. As the toilet flushed the baby’s left foot disappeared into the dryer as Josie attempted to shut the door with a giggle and a wave. We practiced saying “no put Rita in the dryer,” approximately 5 billion times after that.

2. Step two of attempted productivity: clean the master bath. Events included Rita biting off the head of the duck soap, Josie dipping her head into the toilet, the entire contents of every single feminine product being dumped and thrown and stacked and as they asked, “but what are these for and why cant we eat them?” The good news is I salvaged most of the soap from the baby’s mouth.

3. As we continued to de-clutter in the family room, James confidently studded in my general direction holding a chewed up tomato found in between the couch cushions. “Do you think we should throw this away, Mom?” he asked. How long had it been there? Years for all I know.

4. After discarding of what I’m guessing Josie thought was a ball of red candy, I began to grate zucchini to make bread. While cooking with toddlers is usually full of organization and cleanliness, it becomes much worse when the mother begins to bleed a generous amount from two fingers on her right hand. The grater and me = a bad mix of clumsiness and blades.

It was there in the baking process that I should have seen green zucchini turned red and stopped. Alas, I taped up my fingers with bad images of fake romance (explained above) and braved the teaspoon holding toddlers hands on baking lesson. Moments later, tired of a dash of cinnamon here and a help mommy pour the flour there, a few too many ounces of dish soap was happily poured into the wet ingredients as she exclaimed, “blue!!!!” At least I didn’t accidentally burn it?

5. I believe I’ve already confessed about the language issues in this household, namely the phrase “damn it,” being used by James at appropriate times and with emphatic intonation. I have, in all sincerity, attempted to remediate my bad habit, but sometimes, swearing happens just like something else also best described with use of a bad word. Well, the bad habit has been successfully passed on to the younger one, who happened to exclaim not only “damn it!” but also attached “Josie!” to the phrase on three separate occasions this morning, which had to with the bloody fingers, the tomato, and the soap, revealing the most frequent use and word grouping used by those that love her most.


Happy Mothering!