Because it is February 29

My brother, Adam, posted on Facebook something to the effect that it is ridiculous that February 29 only comes once every four years and we have to spend the day working.  It really should be some sort of holiday. 

At the very least, I've decided to write a little something, just to mark the day somehow. 

And what is more appropriate than crazy mothering moments?  Yesterday around 5:15 my kids and I returned home from gymnastics.  Everyone was tired, grumpy, and hungry.  Emmy still needed to do her homework, which I asked her to get started on right away while I tended to everything else that needed to be done.  I put Ryan and Sophie in the bathtub, stuck a baked potato in the microwave so I didn't have to wait an hour for it to bake in the oven, and then proceeded to help Emmy get started on her homework. 

She was in a terrible mood.  Luckily, the older she gets, the more reasonable she is, but last night, was definitely not one of these reasonable moments.  She was griping, whining, and resistant to doing anything I wanted her to do.  Suddenly she was urgently itchy, demanding to take a bath with the other two.  I told her she didn't have time to play in the bath, which led to more tears and demands.  I pulled Sophie and Ryan out, and against my wishes, Emmy hopped right in, but then started crying because there wasn't enough water.  Ignoring her cries, I quickly began clothing the other two, when, quite by accident, Ryan's thumb poked me straight in the eye.  I gasped in pain.  My contact was disheveled, my eye red and teary.   At this point, I wanted so badly to leave my shivering, whining children and just tend to myself.  I did my best to suck it up, pull out the contact, and keep the eye closed.  Then I dressed Sophie and Ryan and began quickly showering Emmy off, so that we could finish her homework.  As I'm finished with conditioning Emmy's hair, Sophie came in and asked, "Why is there so much smoke in our house?" 

I had forgotten about the potato! Somehow, I'd set the time for too long and it had basically burned into what looked like a piece of black coal.  So with my eye still stinging, I hastily opened all of the windows and doors and went rummaging around for a fan to blow the smoke.  Meanwhile, Emmy was still whining, this time because she wanted me to pick her up out of the bath and help her get her clothes on.  I explained that I had a lot to do and that since she was six years old, I needed to be able to count on her to dry herself off and put on her clothes.  She was so upset by this, she laid crying in the bathtub as all of the water drained and she became colder and colder by the second. The shining star in all of this chaos was Sophie, who went to the bathroom to hand Emmy her towel and then brought Emmy her clothes. 

Anyway, it was a crazy, painful, unhappy, smoky 30 minutes of my day.  My house still stinks and my eye is still red, but luckily, today has been better. 

Here's to another four years.  

Lots of love

Children can be Ridiculous

The other night I was lying in bed with Emmy, singing her a lullabye, when halfway through, she stopped me to ask if I could find something to put over her body so that when I was gone, she'd be able to imagine it was my arm around her.  A sweet thought. 

I suggested a spice bag - a 5 lb bag of rice and spices that we heat up in the microwave.  She didn't like that idea.  It didn't remind her enough of an arm.  She didn't like the idea of a blanket rolled up either.  No, she needed something that would be like an arm.  And what is like an arm, you ask?  You are probably as puzzled as I was.  Suddenly she had a brilliant idea:  Daddy's tattoo sleeve! Matt has these sleeves like nylons with tattoos printed on them that he likes to wear whenever he has to dress in costume. This would be the perfect thing to remind Emmy of my arm.  Hmmm. . .

I was in no mood to search the house over for a tattoo sleeve. Already our conversation on the subject had taken much longer than it should have.  I told her "no" and left the room.  The next thing I know, she is in bed, bawling, and singing in a pitiful voice, "no one loves me!"  I heard her door open and close.  She'd placed a note on the floor which read, "No one loves me, not even you." 

All because I wouldn't let her sleep with a tattoo sleeve.  Absolutely ridiculous.

Thankfully, clarity came in the morning. At breakfast, I said, "Emmy, now I am confused about something.  When you think of my arm, do you like to imagine tattoos all over it?"  When put in those terms, she could finally see how crazy she was, and she laughed out loud at the thought.