Momma's Boy

Have you ever felt like shouting, "What the **** did you just say?!?" and then pushing someone in the face, but then you chose not to waste your time because your two munchkins were sopping wet and crying because they were so cold?

That's how I felt this morning.

The boys and I had had a fairly lazy morning followed by a mad dash to get ready for swim lessons.  None of which should surprise anyone who knows me.

We were late to the lesson, but I dropped them off with their teacher in the pool and went to get a seat in the parent viewing area.

During the first ten minutes of class, Squish spotted me and kept saying, "Momma!!" as he gave me a big thumbs-up.  This happened several times, and it was as endearing as you would imagine it to be each and every time.

Toward the end of class, the kids swam to the end of the pool closest to the parent viewing area.  The viewing area is separated from the pool by a wall of windows.  So, when Bug and Squish are at that end of the pool, they can see me, and we are no more than fifteen feet apart from each other.

As the class got out of the pool and lined up behind a starting block to practice jumping into the water, each of the kids was freezing.  They had their arms crossed in front of their bodies and were shivering.

Squish was the saddest of the group.  Literally.  He was shivering and crying.  He saw me and called out, "Momma!  Momma! Momma!"

I gave what was meant to be an encouraging smile and said, "It's okay.  It will be okay," hoping he could suddenly lip read.

But this was not reassuring, and he kept crying and shivering.  Soon I was about to cry, too.

Finally, Bug gave him a little bump forward - his signal that it was Squish's turn to jump in.

A few minutes later, class was over.

I met the boys on the pool deck.  Both of them were shivering, crying, and saying, "Momma!"

Their teacher was standing there and said, "Momma?!?  Ha!  [Squish] kept saying 'Momma, momma!' all through class today.  I called him 'Momma's boy,' and [Bug] laughed.  Hahahahaha.  Good job today, boys."

I said, "Oh . . . No."  Then I wrapped up the boys in towels, picked up Squish, and escorted them to the family changing room as quickly as possible.

What I wish I had said was, "Momma's boy?!?  MOMMA'S BOY?!?  Ha?  Hahahaha?!?  Let me tell you something.  He is three years old.  He is THREE. YEARS. OLD.  And another thing.  He is not a momma's boy.  He is THIS Momma's Boy.  And THIS Momma does not abide by adults calling children names! AND ONE LAST THING.  If my FIVE YEAR OLD laughed when you called my THREE YEAR OLD a name, it's because he didn't realize that you were being an asshole.  But I do."

Then I would have pushed him, and he would have fallen into the pool, drenched in humility. 

Favorite Book Day

This morning, about three minutes after I had put clean clothes on Squish, I heard him in the apartment:

"I have to poooop!"

This is code for:  "I am probably pooping my pants right now because I haven't mastered the art of getting to the toilet in time.  For the love of God, could someone please come help me?!?!!?"

My husband started the clean-up process, and I finished it with lots of coaxing and my most patient voice.

With the first crisis out of the way, I set the boys up with a show and got ready for work.

When the show ended, Bug started asking me if he could watch some kind of Christmas Curious George show.  Sure.  No big deal.  When it's Christmastime, my pleasure.

I took Bug to the kitchen to get his sneakers and jacket on and heard Squish screaming from the living room, "Christmas George!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I want Christmas George!!!!!!!"

Hoping this scream festival would end quickly, I ignored it.

Silly me.

I said, "[Squish], time for sneakers and jacket in the kitchen.  Come in here so we can go to school, please."

Squish, still sitting on the living room floor, staring at a television that had been turned off many minutes ago, screamed at me, "I want Christmas George!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I explained that he needed to stop screaming at me and start putting on shoes and a jacket.  Not effective. 

So I carried him to the kitchen and tried to get sneakers on his feet.

He yelled, "I do not want sneakers!"

Having hit my yell/scream quota for the day, I decided not to fight it.  I put his sneakers in the bag and started out the door with him in my arms.

Half-way to the car, Squish yelled, "I need my sneakers!!!!"

"You will get them in the car.  You chose not to wear them.  So this is the consequence.  Choices have consequences."

"I WANT MY SNEAKERS!"

"In. The. Car."

We drove to school in relative peace - I don't know how or why.

When we arrived, I got Squish out of the car and held his hand in the parking lot while we waited for Bug to climb out and join us.

Bug, in all of his long-limbed, five-year-old dearness, sort of galumphed out of the car in a way that made one of his arms fly forward.

That arm that flew forward landed on Squish's face.

"He hit my nose!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Many hugs, apologies, and reassurances later, we made it inside the school. 

I heard another parent say to his son, "Yep - today is 'Favorite Book Day,' so I brought your favorite books.'"

I looked down at my two boys, who had just made it through a wringer of a morning, and who were oblivious to Favorite Book Day but would probably figure it out in about ten minutes when they saw all of their friends with their favorite books, and all I could say was, "Sorry."

Which was code for: "Of course it was Favorite Book Day.  And of course it felt like a minor miracle that we managed to get out of the apartment with poop-free clothes and shoes on everyone's feet.  Sorry, guys.  Maybe being poop-free and wearing shoes is some kind of de minimis standard in other families, but in ours, it takes a lot of emotional energy and an hour and a half.  We'll do better next time."