My husband is a saint.

Anyone who reads this blog realizes that.  Can you imagine being married to me?  It’ll be 2 in the morning and I will bolt out of bed, run down the stairs and make magnets.  Read email while The Boy takes a bowl filled to the BRIM with milk and cheerios up the stairs, except by the time he gets upstairs, there is no milk and cheerios in the bowl.

D:  WHAT is going on here?
K:  (reading email) Huh?
D:  There is a trail of milk all the way up the stairs and down the hall.
K:  (thinking good for The Boy to at least keep the cheerios in the bowl)  Really?
D:  And there is a puddle of milk here on the counter.
K:  (glaring at The Boy because despite it being HIS bad behavior, I’m getting chewed out for my failure to pay attention).  I already cleaned up one puddle.  There is another one?
D:  Didn’t you know what he was doing?

Of course I knew what he was doing.  But I am determined to make the Number One Parenting Mistake.  Inconsistency.  That’s me.  I told him 7 times that he couldn’t take a bowl of cereal upstairs to eat in his bed.  I cleaned up the first mess.  I told him to sit down to eat.

and then I gave up.  Because he doesn’t listen to me.  Because I have passed (from my gina-saur–thanks Cake Lady for that one) myself.  I don’t know how all of you people who have known me all of my life or who have been forced to ride in a car with me in the early hours of the day when I c-a-n-n-o-t-s-h-u-t-t-h-e-h-e-l-l-u-p did not ever beat my incessantly talking mouth.  I am exhausting.  Alway have been.  No caffeine, no sugar, doesn’t matter.  And now I am getting it back in spades.  I do NOT want a closing argument intended to sway me to see your most ridiculous side.  I am TIRED, people.  I am TIRED of listening to the 30 minute explanation for WHY I should allow you to take a bowl of cereal up to bed.  Tired.  Tired.  Did I mention I was tired? 

I just want to check my email.  I just want to respond to my email.  I just want to be at some small point where I feel like I am caught up on work or at least the end is in sight. 

Maybe my goal should be to see the end of toddlerdom in sight.  Oh, wait.  The Baby just toddled by with a dinner plate and a full set of utensils.  That light at the end of the tunnel?  We call that a mirage. 

(live near clifton, VA?  They are having their annual Spring Scavenger Hunt tomorrow at noon.  The Easter Bunny will be there.  I am TOTALLY sitting on his lap for a picture.  I hope I don’t break his leg…)

So I’m in the shower this morning and The Baby is in his blue tub at the bottom of the shower.  The Boy has run off with my I-Phone to God only knows where.  The Boy suddenly reappears at the bathroom door without the phone.

TB:  MomMomMom.  Your phone is on the green couch. 
K:  Yeah, I would prefer to have my phone here.

The Baby opens the shower door because, God FORBID, he miss anything.

K:  Shut the door, Nate. 
TB:  But it’s on the green couch.
K:  Then I would like you to go down to the green couch and bring it back to this bathroom. 
TB:  (quite cheery) OK, Mom. 

And runs down the hall.  I need that phone back because when it locks, it only allows emergency calls.  I need to know if someone thought we were having an emergency and now some form of emergency response unit is showing up.  You know how the locals get fiesty about repeatedly showing up at your house for nothing. 

I continue to wash my hair and as I close my eyes to rinse out the shampoo, I feel a cool, univited breeze on my body. I look down to find the shower door open and a very wet, very naked, very fat-assed Baby toddling precariously across the very slick bathroom floor.  Because if you have been walking for all of 3 weeks, you should jump right to the Wet Tile portion of the show.  The door flies open and The Boy hands me my phone. I look down to see that the Notes function is open and the word “Jugg” is written on the pad.  The Boy points to what he has written.  I yell to The Baby to get back into the shower and he yells, “MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY”  and starts to walk away faster.

Their father would be so proud. 

The Boy (that’s for you, Marelle):  MomMomMomMom.
K:  Yes, Ethan.
TB:  MomMomMom. Why don’t you have a bag?

Hmmm.  I glanced over to see him pointing at the sea of purses, sachels, handbags, pocketbooks, diaperbags, ect.  There were five women at Chick-fil-a and there must have been 70 bags.  Easily.

K:  Yeah, um.  I don’t carry a purse.
TB:  But what about a bag for Nate’s stuff?
K:  Am I supposed to carry stuff for Nate (looking around frantically).  Does he smell?  Did he poop?  Nate, did you poop?  You already pooped an hour ago.  You can’t poop again. I don’t have a diaper. Damn it, I don’t have a diaper.
TB:  He didn’t poop, Mom.  I just ask because those OTHER moms have bags.

Whatever.  Why we gotta be keeping up with the Jones’s when the kids are 1 and 3?  Seriously. I have, on occasion, carried a purse. But why would I carry a purse if my husband can hold my keys and my wallet? Hello? Why did I get married? I mean, other than for his hot bod? When I had The Boy, I even carried a diaper bag. I had to because the kid had blowouts twice a day. Every single day for the first year of his life. I have never, ever, ever seen someone so full of crap. The Baby? Crapped once a week for the first 6 months of his life. Scared the ever living hell out of me. I thought he was broken.

That being said, The Baby has had a total of like 3 blowouts in his life. I NEVER carry a diaper bag and on occasion just route around in the trunk for a diaper to change a wet one. Change of clothes? I spit on a change of clothes. I did just start taking one diaper in a bag to church on Sundays because after doing nursery duty one week where every other child had a bag with 6 diapers, two meals, a 24 oz. box of Cheerios, two bottles and 7 changes of clothes, I thought that maybe The Baby felt left out. I mean, what if he actually peed in the 19 minutes he was left in nursery.

So today we are on our way into church when Derek brings it to my attention that The Baby is soaked from his armpit to his thigh. He’s holding him up in the air to show me.

K: It’s gotta be milk.
D: I don’t think so.
K: (leaning over to take a whiff) oh, that isn’t milk. That would be pee.

I’m thinking horrible things until I remember that I was the one who changed the diaper last. Just like me to start to cast stones in the church parking lot. I ran back to the truck to route around for a change of clothes.

I came up empty-handed. Nothing. I didn’t even find something of The Boy’s. N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

I crawled back into the building and went up to the Nerve Center of Childcare at the Mega Church.

K: Would you happen to have a change of clothes for a child whose mother is so incredibly irresponsible that she doesn’t. even. have. one?

The answer was yes. And, as is always the case, they only had girl clothes. Because mothers of boys only buy 3 outfits and make the boy wear them until they wear out. The thought of giving away one of those three worn out outfits never crosses the mind of the mother of a boy. She would be too embarrassed. Now the 27 girl outfits that looked like they had been worn 1/2 a time? Adorable. They found a nice brown shirt for The Baby with the cutest pink heart on it. We sent him on his way and it was only after I handed his bright pink cup over the door that I realized that Nate was going to end up Natalie today.

Personally, I think it’s his fault.  You can’t go switching it up now.  You are the Non-Peeing, Non-Crapping Child.  That is your identity in this family.  Any deviations from the personality traits already set in stone at 11 months Will Not Be Tolerated.