Saturday, April 26, 2008

Mom of the Year

After hastily putting my son to bed last night, I scrambled to gather a load of laundry while inhaling a Jello pudding Snack (tapioca...seriously). "Mommmm...gotta poop gotta pee!!" Drop everything...the Prince has summoned me. Flip on the lights, assist the Prince (and trust me, I am definitely not the Queen...I am the Help, the minion...especially at this hour of the day)... He wants to make small talk, he wants to be entertained... It always begins with him gesturing me to have a seat, about there, on the cold tile floor? "So, mom, how are you doing?" the exchange begins, and typically I find these opening lines incredibly endearing. Tonight, however, not so much... I answer flatly, "Actually, your Highness, I am running on empty. I want to take a bath, a Benadryl...or 3...and go to bed. Tapped out. Done for the day. Thanks for asking." So, the Prince is on his throne...tapping his knees, doing his business...and I sit there, keeping his Majesty company... And I am doing the worst thing possible, I am rushing him along..."Are you finished? I think you're finished..." Like, who am I to determine whether the Kid is done POOPING?! I am creating issues that will creep up in the most unlikely scenarios another ten or fifteen years from now...("It's not my bong, mom, I swear..."). Great. Why am I hurrying him along? So I can watch Tivo'd Lost? A show I can't stand anyway? I open the cabinet beneath the sink, looking for the Toddler Butt Wipes (it is a glamorous life, I tell you) and the King wails...his face is fiery and red, tears spring from his eyes, he is screaming Bloody Freaking Murder. As he is on the potty, I assume he is having a problem. So, still holding the cabinet open, I crouch down to offer some words of calm, to pat his shoulder or head, I don't know... And his head is like shaking, he is freaking out and with his other hand, he points all trembly to his FINGER STUCK IN THE OPEN FUCKING CABINET DOOR. "Oh my god, I am so sorry, buddy...let me see it..." So his pitiful little index finger is all purple and white and what has been maybe three seconds feels an awful lot like three hundred HOURS...I grab a clean wipe and wet it with cold water, place it on his poor little finger and he is looking at me like, "Dude, I know you've had a rough night, but could you please pay attention to what your doing??" Then, he is further disturbed by the fact that he can see the tip of his finger, with the wipe wrapped around I go all origami on him and fold the wipe into this complicated little finger tent/bandage thingie, which is great cause he reasons it won't hurt anymore if he can't see it. And I am like, "How bout a bandaid?" To which he replies, disgustedly,"Mom, it's not actually a boo boo." So, I figure, okay, fine...if this baby wipe does the trick, great...can we all go to bed now? But, first, let me collect my Mom of the Year award...I am overdue.

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