Netflix & Chill

*diiiiiiingdooooong*

 

I quickly assessed myself in my bedroom mirror: sucked in my gut, rearranged my dress, evaluated my jaw line and light make-up, turned this way and that, made sure the curls were behaving as well as I could manage, and with a heavy breath full of nervous energy and half confidence, I sauntered down my stairs to open my door.

 

I greeted my guest with a sexy smile, locked eye contact, and an open door invitation. Once you entered my home, I shakily repeated my practiced line, “Netflix is upstairs, but I’m right here.”. *insert long awkward pause* With a half hidden giggle full of tension, I offered, “Would you like a drink?”. “Yes!”, you exclaimed, “Aaaand possibly a smoke?”. We scrambled to the kitchen. You took a beer. We walked out my backdoor to visit the choir of loud nightlife, while we attempted to gather our swirling thoughts.

 
“I don’t really do this.”, I breathed. “Invite strange men into my home…only to partake in small talk on my back porch.” We shared an intense moment of silence between us. With a questioning and bold glance coming from me, I feel as if my saucy wit kind of saved the day, because you put your cigarette out, opened the backdoor, and then reached down for me. I accepted your gesture, and allowed you to lead me into my own kitchen.

 
With roles reversed again, I wordlessly commanded a swig of your beer and placed it upon the kitchen table. I took your hand in mine and silently led the way upstairs to my room. Once we walked in, I turned and closed the door to leave us alone in my candle lit fantasy. I pivoted to find your face alight with the subdued lighting and your soul piercing eyes glued to my every movement. With my half made bed as a centerpiece behind you, and the Netflix paused tv glowing in front of you, I found the courage to step forward.
I “fixed” your half untucked shirtails in record time. Your under shirt acted as an iron clad barrier to the enticing warmth of what was hidden beneath. Slowly, I managed to break your prisoned shirt from its previously kept cell. Once free, the billowing shirt was no match for my inept fingers. My mirrored hands gently scraped the taut skin on the sides of your abdomen. You rapidly breathed the chill of my touch in, and your body found immediate height. Once you warmed to my offerings, your gaze became even more striking. I chose to do what I’d been dreaming about for far too long. I traveled my hands up your stomach with more force than the tickles of the afore mentioned practice. My nose followed suit starting with your chest. Your shirt clad body stood no match to the hungry tigress within grasp. I nuzzled your neck, inhaling the wanton smell of male. I nipped. I nibbled. I licked and I sucked. Once I took your earlobe into my mouth, I heard your sharp intake of breathe and felt your body still. I took the moment to override your senses with pleasure. With my hands surrounding your face, and my mouth locked on your jaw line, I gently applied pressure, and we cascaded onto my bed.

 
We kissed. We explored. We tumbled and we paused. And during a particularly intense moment full of crossed boundaries, you literally flipped me over, with one knee held snug in between my thighs, and the other parading just along the outside. You nuzzled my chest so that I was whimpering and gasping for more. In that moment, you reached far above my left shoulder, grasped what you were searching for, and with remote in hand, gyrated into me while gruffly asking me, “What’s good on TV?”.

 
If looks could kill…

 
You laughed. Harder and more genuine than I’ve ever seen manifest from you.
And then you ravished me. Over and over and over again.

Just Your Average, Everyday, Absent-minded Mom

***To quickly update my newest readers(hi!), I’m a full-time, single mama of a 2 and 3 year old.***

It’s like 52 card pick up, only it’s toothpicks and toddlers.

Today’s task to accomplish: Blow the massive piles of leaves littering our yard over the hill.

That’s it! Simple, right?! Right… *ahem*

Ok, to be completely upfront, this was yesterday’s task. I even promised. I failed. I could say it’s because I stayed busy all morning cleaning and organizing(truth), put the littlest down for a late nap(truth), and as I was contemplating whether or not the leaf blower’s loudness would wake the baby, my 3-nager, who’d just fallen asleep on the couch, woke up dry heaving(truth). His earlier complaints of his stomach hurting made me rush to his side, but not quickly enough(of course…). Couch, check. Shirt, check. Blanket, carpet, and mom’s cupped hands, triple check. I got him stripped, cleaned up, and the couch sprayed. I got him situated again, and then the littlest woke up. I said to myself, “Fuck the leaves.”.

After breakfast, flirting, and heaps of procrastination, I headed outside. I quickly decided I’d picked a really stupid day to blow leaves. It was drizzly and the leaves were wet, but at least it  wasn’t bitterly cold like it had been earlier in the week!

My snapchat account is only really used about once a week. When I do remember to check it, the munchkins normally demand to participate(because who doesn’t like to be made into make believe characters and have funny voices?!). Today, I decided to show off my greater intelligence, by snapchatting part of my leaf blowing experience. Immediately after, you guessed it, I lost my phone amidst the army of leaves.

Insanely stressed Randa was then on her knees, hand searching through a wet yard full of rotting vegetation. I got the ingenious idea to call  my phone. Here’s where that idea gets tricky…

1) The phone I lost isn’t connected to a conventional phone plan. I bought the phone secondhand online. I use it for its awesome picture taking capabilities and its ability to connect to wifi. When connected, it DOES have a texting/call app. I was hoping that the lost phone was close enough to the house to even pick up internet signal.

2) My normal cell phone was not only dead, but it doesn’t get service where I live. I seriously have to like stand on 1 foot with my tongue attached to a makeshift antennae with the phone precisely in a very specific spot in order to get 1 bar of service. Difficult to accomplish when it’s attached to a cord charging. 

3) I just recently downloaded the phone app, so I didn’t have my secondary number saved anywhere, including my other cell phone.

4) I couldn’t send a message(because charging and no service) or get a response to find out what my number was(is) in order to try calling it from the house phone. 

5) I have a toddler handled tablet. Which means it’s dysfunctional as all get up. I tried, and I mean, I REALLY tried to send out an S.O.S. to Facebook land in search of anyone who knew my “other” phone number. I couldn’t get past, “Hey, does anyone know my $$$%/”. No matter the direction I turned the tablet, I couldn’t get it to type numbers. This isn’t including the multitude of times I typed incorrect letters because the tablet is broken, and I couldn’t remember which direction the tablet had to be facing in order to backspace…

6) I gave up all hopes of finding the number and calling my lost phone.

I went back to being the frazzled looking woman wandering her large yard and inconsistently moving leaves/sticks/small mounds of earth around with her hands.

I’m sure I looked sane…
And then there’s the toddlers. Prior to me losing my phone, they were super good “helpers” outside. After I lost my phone, they were long gone inside reeking toddler havoc in the house. While I was trying to find a way to call my phone, they were busy hunting and gathering fruit snacks. They tried really hard to get me to open them, but I was on a one track mission to find my phone.

Sometime during my search, I decided the universe was possibly telling me to rescue Bella’s thorn imprisoned soccer ball from our long forgotten, late summer game. I also thought the universe(please read: my brain, possible Gods, higher spiritual beings, etc) was telling me this was a good lesson in not being so reliant/dependant on my flippin smart phone! I went and grabbed the hedge cutters, and went to town hacking the thorn bushes that were fiercely protecting the long lost soccer ball. I saved it! But my toddlers were now outside again, carrying unopened fruit snack packages. Oh shit, my youngest is barefoot! And I’m being hugged by thorns I previously cut down… I managed to accrue a few war wounds, hopefully didn’t rip any new holes in my winter coat, and brought the ball and munchkins to safety. Once I decided to stop being selfish and open my baby loves’ snack, I went back to searching, in the rain, did I mention it was raining?!

I FOUND IT!!!!!!!! Saved by the leaves from the rain. Hip, hip, hooray! 

Once I got my phone to safety, I realized I still had a task to complete…

With the tots waving, signing, and dancing to me from inside the floor to ceiling window, I blew, blew, and blew some more(leaves…). Oriana came outside barefoot again. She wanted a nap, but I was determined to get my chore done. I picked her up and continued on. I got a full body work out kicking and blowing leaves, while toddler holding.

I washed about a billion loads of laundry today, got zero put away. Argued intensely with headstrong toddlers. And still managed to feed them a semi healthy dinner(that was a fight, too). My youngest just passed out for the evening, and my 3-nager is still mad at life. 

Somehow, I managed to type this out. On my once lost, deeply treasured phone. I also transferred a yard full of heavy, wet leaves down the hill. I feel accomplished even though my dining room table is overflowing with clothes. *shrugs*

Bathroom Talk

Oh shit!!!!!

No, literally…

I was on the shitter when I heard the front door slam and moments, later baby giggles outside.

Ohhh mannnnn. Do I continue to empty my bowels, or do I go save the day? And by save the day, I mean half drag, half carry my two tots into the house, all while they are screaming and crying to stay outside(ya know, to taste test rocks and fight zombies and shit).

I decided to continue pooping as quickly as humanly possible. Yes, selfish, but I made a choice, by golly. So while I’m attempting to play Speed Racer in the toilet race of the century, all I can think is that my one and two year old are going on a walk by themselves. This means, my clumsy youngest will probably fall down the initial big hill. Once there, she’ll either cry or go to town chowing down at the all you can eat buffet commonly known as gravel. There’s a decent chance that a neighbor will find them and make a call to the officials leaving more sustenance for my abusive ex to use against me in any possible future squalor.

Wiped clean, raced(yes, sans washing of hands…) to the door, to nooooot find them wandering the neighborhood, to not find them greeted by a concerned neighbor. Nope, biggest was playing in the car, and littlest was exploring the immediate yard (That may or may not have consisted of taste testing non edibles.).

It was then that I sternly reminded my stinkpots of the deal we’d made prior to my bathroom excursion. Socks and shoes and outside time AFTER MOMMY GOES POTTY!

“Ohhh yeeeeah.”, the cutest little two year old voice says, as he erases my fears and fills me with smiles.

Time to go wash my hands…

Hashtag, World’s Most Okayest Mom(thanks, Would).

#momlife

My response:

“I mean, who WOULDN’T want to share a home where everything is hoarded up high(yes, that does mean cluttered, unorganized shelves), where you get the view of one tiny minion tearing the extra toilet paper roll(that you stuffed to the very back of the low shelf. You note to add another item to your cluttered mess.) while you poop, and you hear another set of tiny feet clapping down the hallway in hurried excitement. Oh shit. You hear drawers being opened and closed in the kitchen. Trust your toddler to not die so you can finish pooping in peace? Yes. You come out to your toddler eating ice cream with a pair of tongs and frozen chicken strips littering the floor. Tablet. I need to purchase a tablet to occupy him while I poop. But then I’d worry about finding it in the tub of ice cream. No, locks. I need locks. High locks. This isn’t my house…. Ok, I’ll settle for a sense of humor and knowledge that my tots will be in pre-k in 2 years. Yeah…I probably shouldn’t date for another 2 years… I mean, unless drool puddles, cheese smears, and the faint aroma of hidden urine do it for you. In that case, sign me up. 😉 ”

The Transfer

Those of you with babies and other small children will know exactly what I’m about to describe: The Transfer.

Alright, so you’ve just boob juiced/rocked/bounced entertained your baby to sleep. That, in and of itself, deserves a medal. Well, maybe an award ribbon. Here, I’ll draw you your very own craptacular prize. Print this out, color it, frame it, shelf it, post it on the fridge, pin it to your child/Pinterest, whatever. Let people know this mundane shit is really what makes us parents.

*pats self on back*

Now comes the hard part, lying said baby down without tripping, falling, stubbing a toe, screaming, “FUUUUUUCK!!!!!” about said toe, or having a 2 year old “assist” in the process. I gotta be real, I fail 6/7 times, and that’s just a mid morning nap attempt.

That damn toddler gets me every time…

Without further ado, allow me to paint the wonderfully picturesque attempt of this very morning.

Today, my 2 year’s old’s cousin was over to hang out. So he kept the tot busy most of the morning. I normally choose 1 of 2 situations when I’m attempting to put my 9 month old to sleep. Either I nurse her while cradling her in my lap, or I lay down in bed next to her. You can betcho ass they both come with their own set of difficulties!

If I were to have held her in my arms while nursing her this morning, I would have had the privilege of still being mommy in person to the toddler. I also would have eventually either had a very heavy paper weight, sealed against me by a thin layer of sweat and baby dribble, or I would have had to attempt the dreaded transfer, where I then prayed to the Gods in the heavens above that I didn’t wake the baby with the aforementioned possible(read “probable“) scenarios.

I chose to instead lie in bed next to her, with my door open, to hear the scramblings of my 2 year old. The baby had already almost fallen asleep on me, so I thought, *just possibly* the toddler would stay entertained long enough for me to get her good and asleep. I know, I know, laughable, right? This is why I only get the task accomplished 1 out of every 7 times. Ok, so I set the pillow up on the outside of the baby, making her feel all cozy and shit. The bed is only a few inches off the wall. Getcher panties out of that wad.  😉  I put another pillow on the side that separates us, because my hope is that while I’m holding my breath and trying to inch away from her, she wont be startled awake in my absence. Alriiiiight, I’ve got this. I can hear Skylar pitter-pattering downstairs. She’s *almost* in a deep slumber, no longer suckling, deep breathing…..aaaaand along comes her brother trampling in. “Dora!!!“, he demands. I told him the TV was on in the living room and to go watch it in there. “Noooo! Doraaa!“. This goes on for another minute or two. He finally goes into the other room to whine and moan about me not rescuing him with his beloved Dora. Then, I hear the freezer open. I hear scrounging around. The freezer door closes. I hear a drawer open and shut. He’s OBVIOUSLY on a mission. THIS is why we’ve put all the flammables, poisons, and sharp objects up high. Anyway, I guessed right. He brought me a frozen gogurt to open for him. I thought I was in the clear, but in the process of getting up, the baby woke, too. I went to the kitchen, opened his yogurt, went back to the bedroom to attempt to put Odie Pie to sleep.

Oriana: Nah, Bruh. It’s play time.

Me: *heavy sigh* Oooooook

Snack time, diaper changes, oreo truffles, clean up, and play time ensue. Then, more nursing and a possible naptime window opens.

Ok, I got her laid down a 2nd time, thought I was in the clear all over again!

Aaand then I heard a toddler walking into the bathroom next to my room mumbling, “Poopoo, poopoo.”. He refused to wait to be changed(Good call, Sky.). She cried. I changed a diaper, felt a little loss, and then found some perspective.

I gave up on attaining the mid morning nap, but found joy in yet another cup of coffee…

and in this.

aaaaand also there was this.

Afternoon naps are easier, right???

Put On Your Fuckin’ Party Hats

…cuz we’ve got a lovely life to celebrate.  🙂

I’ve got a bunch of emotions rollin’ around in me right now. I normally do on this day. I called my brother earlier, left him a voicemail. I told him he was handsome. Who does that? Who randomly tries not to cry while admitting her love and devotion to her little-big brother? This girl. I don’t remember the last time I got to actually talk to him. It’s been 2 years since I’ve seen him. It makes me sad, sometimes. I miss him… If you see that guy, tell him to call his sister!

Facebook tells me what I did this day last year. I was 6 months pregnant and caring for my 93 year old grandmother who’d broken her hip in a fall. I couldn’t get any doctor to understand the severity of the situation. They kept telling me she was “fine”, because they missed reading the fracture. She was completely bed ridden. She also had rapidly declining dementia. It was undocumented. I lived 6ish hours from her. I saw her in April when she had a mini stroke, and she appeared to be fine. Noone knew how bad her memory had gotten. It was really sad for me to discover her overdosing herself and under medicating herself. She’d wake up really disoriented in the middle of the night. It was all so very confusing and difficult for her to understand. She admitted she felt like she was going crazy. She felt like a burden on me. Thankfully, she mostly only has short term memory loss. So, basically we had the same few conversations on repeat all day long. I was also caring for a toddler in a non toddler proofed home. This was immediately after my ex had financially abused me and stopped paying child support. I was lost, and confused, and about to have a baby, and had to let my big girl live with her dad, just so much fucking transition.

Oh, and it was my mom’s birthday…

So, that was last year.

I’m in a really good spot in comparison… It’s all about perspective, right?

Today, is my mom’s birthday. Well…today would have been her birthday. I’m not so good at math, so it took me a small eternity to figure out that she would have been 59 today. Ya know, had she lived.

59… God, I can’t even imagine. Part of me tries really hard to visualize that. The greying hair. The wrinkles. The little, old, tall lady set in her ways. And part of me tries so very hard not to. Because with the extra 11 years. Fuck. 11 years, guys. I’ve been without my mommy for 11 fucking years. I was just a baby at 19. I don’t even think my boobs were done growing yet. We had just started our adult relationship. I was just starting to learn to trust her again(you know, from childhood dramas). She was gloriously human. Amazingly, angelically, poignantly, human. So to get back to the point I was trying to make, with 11 years added onto an ailing, lupus ridden body, she probably would have been in a lot more pain than I even remember her being in back then. I don’t want to think about that.

I wasn’t lying when I said I have a bunch of emotions going on. Not only emotions, but sometimes my mind goes into overdrive, and I just start playing out these scenes and possibilities and pretend conversations that would have taken place had she lived. Sometimes it sucks to be so creatively inclined…

Like, more than once today, I imagined her scooping Skylar up to love and sing and play and dote on him. I teared up while cuddling with him, seeing this make believe scene play out. And then I cried even more because I know he’ll never get that opportunity. I realize he’ll never feel that loss. But he’ll never know the joy of having a Grandma Nancy, and that brings me sorrow.

I pretend she saved me from getting together with assholes. And I pretend she wasn’t dating a pedefilic asshole when she died. I don’t make those claims lightly. He tried to fucking hit on me at my mother’s funeral, and I later found out his TWO previous marriages failed, because he’s perverse. And I pretend that I didn’t learn those loose boundaries and self worth standards from her. But it’s not like she intentionally taught me those things. It’s a cycle. I get that. And different things manifest in different people. And we all look at the world from a different view, a different lens, a different perspective. It’s all about that damn perspective, and goddamn if I don’t want to just be able to talk to her about perspectives! She saw the good in every one. That’s what she chose to see. It’s what kept her sane. It’s what kept OTHERS sane. Her light was so fucking bright, it blinded the dark in others. I remember my dad talking to me about stuff like that when I was way too damn young to understand. When she didn’t have a dollar to her name, she’d scrounge for change in order to send me off into my own entitled teenage world with whatever it was that I was wanting…probably candy or a soda at lunch.

I miss cuddling with her. I miss talking to her on the phone. I miss her self righteous, always right attitude. I miss the gift of hating that same attitude. I miss the boisterous laugh I was always so embarrassed to hear. I now own that same cackle. I used to be embarrassed of my own, unadulterated laugh, but now, at 30, I finally fucking own it. It’s me. It’s her. It’s real, and it’s beautiful. We’re loud… We’re quiet. We’re intense, and we’re passive. She was such a humble goddess. She could bring chills to anyone with her gift of song. She was such a fucking diva. She rocked any stage. Bella gets that from her. I sure as fuck don’t. I have the gifts, but I also have the anxiety, and I’ve learned finally, I can’t just wish it away. Anxiety doesn’t work that way.

I wish she were here to argue mundane stuff like me cussing, or me choosing not to spank, or me using woowoo medicine before pharmaceuticals. God, I would have taught her so much(and vise versa of course)! And she would have been defensive, because it would have challenged her prior ways of thinking and doing. She also would be so, so, so, so proud. Because I learn, and I admit fault, and I challenge myself and others to destroy the fucking box. I live in my authenticity. And I value others for theirs. And she’d see and know that with all of her being. She’d see my gullibility and love me because of it, and not make fun of me for it. She’d be so proud of me. Not the fake, “Oh your mother would be so proud.” kind of comment I get in passing, cuz really, looking from the outside in, just, no. But she’d see that I grew up on canned and processed foods and how now I eat mostly real, homemade foods. I have my 1st garden ever! She’d get me. She raised me. I’m a part of her. She’d be fucking proud…and still hate my love of the word fuck, and my weird hippie ways. And we’d both be ok with that. She’d be a right wing conservative, and I’d be a liberal anarchist, and we’d find middle ground. We’d fight and argue and not talk and then we’d make amends, because we valued each other. I still value her. I even giggle at the imagined disdain she’d wear for my love of tattoos. I can see the disgust and misunderstandings she’d have about them, but I also imagine them growing on her. Maybe that’s just because I now have her permanently, symbolically tattooed onto me. I’m rocking the canvas she co-created. ❤

She’d be such a radiant grandmother. I.miss.her. She’d be that quirky woman with self confidence who quietly still battles self image issues, who wears outfits that are a bit outdated, who keeps a birds nest in her hair, because it takes too much energy out of her to brush through her long, thick locks. I’d massage her cracking, dry hands and feet. I’d pray her scoliosis would stop causing her pain. I’d pray her arthritis would disappear. I’d pray all of these things for her. And she’d pray for me. And we’d pray together. And together we’d be made more whole.

I’m left with all of these what ifs, and I’m left with all of these memories. I’m left with a lot of goodness and a lot of sadness. I want to be able to yell at her for some of the decisions she made, and I want to hug her for others.

I can’t do any of that.

So, I pretend. And, I wonder, and I believe what it is that I believe when it comes to the afterlife. I don’t know what the fuck it is that I believe, so I continue to talk to her and ask her for guidance and help. It may be crazy. It may be insane, but it’s what gets me through both the good days and the tough days. I realize it’s a coping skill, but it’s one I’m comfortable with.

Tonight, I sang Happy Birthday with Skylar with one lone pink candle on a slice of german chocolate cake. He was pretty into it. The singing, the anticipation of devouring the sugary goodness, the process of extinguishing the fire, yeah, all pretty perfect for a 2 year old. I started this tradition last year. We got cupcakes. I made an asian fusion meal the other night and texted my brother, “For as much as mom loved Chinese food, she never cooked it, did she???”. Chinese was her favorite. When I introduced “in bed” to end her fortune cookie’s phrase, she laughed and laughed and laughed. That’s one of the last memories I have with her. Someday, I’ll be in a position to take my loved ones out for Chinese in honor of the amazing woman they’ll only get to hear about in stories. So until then, I’ll just tend to my memories, and wallow with them for a bit.

Happy birthday, sweet Nancy Sue(I never called her that. She was always just Mom or Mommy.). I love you.

Peepee Dance

When my oldest was 2, she caught me in the kitchen red handed. “Mommy, you gotta go peepee?”, she asked me, ever so sweetly. I was in the middle of the potty dance.

Have you ever gone to the bathroom at a gas station? Yes. Ok. Now, how about with a munchkin? Add in 2 munchkins(2 & under!!!)? Hell, let’s get really rowdy here. Ever gone pee in a public restroom with 3 chitlins?! That’s just crazy talk… There’s a reason I NEVER leave my house without going to the bathroom, first. I also procrastinate, nurse, pack a diaper bag, procrastinate some more, pack a snack bag, prepare beverages, change diapers, pick my nose, and nurse again ~ all before even loading the car!

Ok, so I’ve pulled up to put some sustenance in Maggie. Maggie is short for Margaret, because I’m sure you wanted to know. Margaret has been my faithful friend for the last year, except for that 1 time she stranded me and the babies on the side of the road at like midnight… That wasn’t very cool.  Maggie is my ’94 grey Volvo station wagon. Yes, she really is as cool as she sounds. Indy meets Mommyhood. Her thirst is a lot like my own, unquenchable. Normally when I pull into top dear Maggie off(*ba dum chh*), I also have a screaming infant…or one who’s just woken up(which means she needs boob juice pronto in order to continue being that adorable, cheeky baby, and not that annoying, screaming one). Since I’ve also decided to down an entire gallon of water to keep the boredom at bay while driving, and not all of the excess has gone to my water bags(holy engorgement), that means, I too, now have to pee.

*shoot me*

Ok, so the Littlest is still quiet enough to keep her in her carseat during the short trip in in order for Mommy to pee(praise Jeebus). This is the mandatory order in which I have to do things, or else my life gets much more complicated much faster. And, really, no one wants extra points on that damn complication scale. I pull out 2 diapers, wipes, my phone and my wallet. I’ve learned, normally these things are just fun(and later useful) chew toys for the infant, sometimes the tot gets to hold onto an item to “help”, and I don’t have to worry about giving someone, whether that someone be a stranger or my 2 year old, a black eye with the dark abyss that’s commonly known as a diaper bag. Ok, so I lay these items on the baby. I unbuckle her from the car. I bring her to her brother’s side of the car. She’s at my feet, so she doesn’t get run over. I (again) put socks and shoes on the toddler, answer about a billion 2 year old questions, unfasten him, wipe off the army of snacks that cover him and his seat, close the heavy, creaky door with my butt, firmly hold onto my toddler’s hand, give him the wipes because of his persistence to “help”, pick up 20 pounds of Odie with however many more pounds of uncomfortable car seat, and away we go!!! And by away, I mean, I’ve got that awkward, snail paced gait thing going on, because of the weight in my left hand, and the small legged man child attached to my right. I’m center, but I MUST lead, or else I’m trampling the tot. He forgets this sometimes, so occasionally, there’s a trip or 2…or 57. We made it to the door! Whew! Now sometimes, there is a nice person who is either coming or going who will open the door for me and my posse!!! And sometimes, there are people who see us coming from a mile away, avoid eye contact, and get the hell out of dodge! Sometimes, there is no one. This is one of those times. I haven’t quite mastered from here on out. Because baby, but mostly, because toddler… Those creatures are unpredictable. So, I chose to set the baby down, opened the door, picked her back up, all while trying not to knock my 2 year old over with the car seat. We’re back in action. He’s dropped the wipes half a dozen times by now, no, just kidding, only twice. I’ve got my sexy fashionista model walk going on, ya know, one handedly keeping my toddler from being a noodle baby or from insisting on the nearest “Boof!!!”(juice), or “Tandy!”. Fuck you, junk food. You’re a single mom’s worst nightmare in a store. Ok, we’ve made it to the bathroom! Aaaaaand, the handicap stall is out of order… Somehow, I manage to crawl into the miniscule stall, with my tiny viewing audience. Thankfully, Baby Love has been pretty content this whole time eating (clean) diapers, so she’s not thrown a fit up until this point. She sees how the walls are closing in on us. She watches me speed pee. She also listens to me rapidly fire out “No!”s to Skylar like they’re going out of fashion. “No, pleeeeease don’t lay on this nasty floor.” “No, don’t lick the door!” “Please don’t unlock the door. Please don’t unlock the door. PLEASE DON’T UNLOCK THE DOOR!!!” “Baby, it isn’t polite to look under the doors like that. The other ladies want privacy.” “No, the lady doesn’t have a peziz.” “No, I don’t have a peziz.” “Yes, you and Baker and Cameron and Julian and Dad and Grandpa and…every other man(except for those who identify as men who don’t have “male” genitalia) on this planet have pezises.” “No, I don’t want your help wiping, thanks.” “Get out of my butt.” “No, I still don’t have a peziz.” “No, don’t pick your sister’s nose.” “GENTLE hugs to the baby!!!” Ok, whew, done. Time to wash hands and change the babies. “Skylar, please don’t play in the trash can. Get away from the door, it’ll hit you and you’ll get hurt. It’s ok, the loud noise is just drying my hands off. No, I really need you to not look under the doors again. Hey, Sky, you can open the door in just a minute!!! Ok, your turn!” In the mean time, I have an irate baby wanting out of her car seat, getting redder and redder and louder and louder, and a toddler that wants to simultaneously play noodle baby and practice jumping off the changing table at the same time. Somehow, I manage to throw old diapers away, get new ones on the babies, and waddle out ever so ceremoniously with a baby who is now so upset, she is has pools of salty tears streaming down her face and is almost crying so loud she’s losing her air supply. By this point, I am almost in tears myself. I know I don’t want to go through the hassle(which translates to my patience-o-meter is in the red) of running after a 2 year old who has,”Ooh look, SQUIRREL! syndrome” in a gas station, so I scoop him up, and comedically(to you) half run to sweet, sweet, reliable Maggie. I still have to get gas, but first I HAVE to stick a boob in Little Miss’ mouth. I take the key out of the ignition, and let Sky play in the car for a bit while I nurse, put gas in the car, and scrape up a little bit of both my sanity and dignity that I lost from somewhere along that very short path to the bathroom. I take some deep breaths. I play on Facebook. I people watch, recenter, give Sky some “Boof!”, answer a billion more 2 year old questions, buckle  them back in, and then we’re “On The Road  Again!”.

No sweat off my back, Jack.

I may or may not have knocked an entire display over with my diaper bag, before.

My son may or may not have licked unsanitary bathroom walls before.

I click-clacked 1 handed throughout 9/10 of this blog. If that isn’t dedication, I’m not sure what is.

#lazydeadbeatmom