Safe

Me, age 42
Owen, age 9

I should’ve known we had a problem when I caught my son dabbling in illegal activity last summer.

It all had to do with the Snack Shack. The Snack Shack is the snack bar at our neighborhood swimming pool. Tickets for the Snack Shack are 25 cents each, and to Owen they represent all that is mind-bogglingly glorious about summer, like Laffy Taffys, Bomb Pops, and nachos with neon-orange cheese sauce.

You will not be surprised to learn that I enforce a strict limit on the number of Snack Shack tickets my kids are able to use every day. Nor will you be surprised to learn that Owen repeatedly revolts against this limit, which he somehow perceives to be a personal insult.

One afternoon in late July, I noticed Owen busy at work in a dim corner of our basement with scissors, markers and poster board. When I pressed him for details about his mystery art project, he carefully maneuvered his body to block my view. “I’m not making anything, Mom,” he said, evading eye contact. “Really.”

Right.

There’s a reason kids go to bed before their parents. It’s so moms can snoop through clandestine art projects. Poking around the basement, I was surprised to find that Owen had cleaned up the mess on his own (!), without me having to nag (!), so 99% of the evidence was gone. However, he was not flawless in his execution because, on my hands and knees behind a chair, I cheerfully unearthed two clues: a real Snack Shack ticket AND A COUNTERFEIT SNACK SHACK TICKET, MADE BY OWEN.

“Oh, my God,” I said to the empty basement. “My son is a criminal.”

The following morning, Owen, my husband and I had a sit-down discussion about how making counterfeit Snack Shack tickets is wrong, etc. etc. There were apologies, there was a no-Snack Shack-for-a-week punishment doled out, there were tears. All in all, I thought it was a positive learning experience for my burgeoning lawbreaker.

I didn’t give the counterfeit Snack Shack ticket sting another thought until last week, nine months later. Owen had just walked home from school. He came through the backdoor with great fanfare, brandishing a $20 bill. “Buddy, where did you get that?” I asked, and a creeping sense of doom rose in my throat: the look on his face told me that he instantly regretted waving the money in my face and should have left it concealed in his pocket.

“Buddy, where did you get that?” I asked again, trying to remain composed.

“Nowhere,” he said, cornered. “Nothing. No one.”

It was time for another sit-down discussion, whereupon I was uncomfortably reminded of Owen’s creativity, boldness, and enterprising spirit. He confessed that he had sold some of his better Pokémon cards to a classmate in some sort of “deal”, but he was sketchy about how the sale went down.

He and his friends have been trading Pokémon cards all year, but buying and selling them is another thing entirely. Last I checked, buying and selling anything on the school playground is not a super idea. I made this very clear to Owen. There were admonishments, there were consequences, there were tears. I thought it was a positive learning experience for him, but I found myself worrying anew: first it’s counterfeit Snack Shack tickets, now it’s a Pokémon-card laundering scheme. What next?

In the midst of my mini-crisis, I had lunch with a close friend. It was a perfect chance for me to vent about my concerns about Owen. He might have a brazen entrepreneurial spirit, but he pushes boundaries like crazy and it makes me nervous. My friend told me that I wasn’t alone, referencing her own mom and brother, who had a good deal of similar challenges when he was a kid. “My mom spent 18 years with a pit in her stomach, wondering when the next call about my brother was going to come,” she said. “She felt like she could never relax. On the days when the school didn’t call her, it was his coach or the church instead. She said she never felt safe. She was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

That is exactly how I feel: I don’t feel safe. I love my friend’s mom for putting it that way. I always have a snarky little voice in the back of my head that whispers things like, “So, you think you had a good day today, Laura? Just wait until tomorrow. You can't remain unscathed for long.” In light of Owen’s questionable decision-making, the voice is getting even worse: “Your kid is sneaky and he’s only in third grade! What will he try to get away with when he’s in high school?!”

In fact, I have no clue what he will try to get away with when he’s in high school, nor do I want to dwell on that right now. Because I’m too consumed with trying to raise up three law-abiding citizens while making sure I don’t lose my sanity. – Although, really, why do I think I should be immune from this? Isn’t being a mother inherently stressful and unsafe and insane? There is a quote I’ve heard that touches on this idea:

“Making the decision to have a child – it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”

– Elizabeth Stone

If I were a better, more crafty person, I would cross-stitch this phrase on canvas and hang it on my wall. It would look pretty, and it would remind me I’m not alone in my madness. But I know nothing about cross-stitch, and I don’t have any free time: my heart is too busy out there in the world making sham tickets for the snack bar and getting the better end of the deal on illicit Pokémon transactions.    

    

Batsh*t crazy

“Mothers are all slightly insane.”

From The Catcher in the Rye,

by J.D. Salinger

Me, age 41
Jane, age 12
Owen, age 9

Every year, I give up swearing up for Lent.

When I’m not knee-deep in these 40 days of solemn religious observance, I’ve been known to have a mouth like a sailor. (Never in front of my kids – but get me behind a closed door and I will let an f-bomb fly.) I’d like to think that Lent is a chance for me to purify myself, much like Jesus’s fasting in the wilderness, but I can only conclude that Jesus was a much better person than I. Because, oh Lord, I’m struggling without those razor-sharp words in my verbal arsenal.  

A few years ago, researchers from The Journal of Pain and a British university conducted studies on swearing and found that it can provide effective, natural, short-term pain relief. Participants in the studies were able to withstand an ice-cold water challenge for a longer length of time if they repeatedly uttered swear-words than if they repeated a neutral word. The researchers figured out that swearing helped the participants withstand the pain because of the emotional response (anger, aggression, etc.) the swearing produced. This emotional response actually led to a surge in adrenaline much like the body’s natural fight or flight response. The researchers called it “stress-induced analgesia.” I call it magnificent.

I never wholly appreciate this stress-induced analgesia until I am forced to live without it. Which, of course, is the case right now. It’s a real challenge for me, because there have already been multiple times today where a swear-word has begun to form on my lips. I’ve been able to choke all of them back, but I acutely miss the blissful sense of liberation that comes from hurling those plump, ripe curses into the atmosphere.    

My day started at the crack of dawn with my son, Owen. His desire to play Pokémon cards with his friends on the playground is so godda** intense that he sometimes wants to go to school a full hour before it begins. Today was one of those days. I had to physically block his way so he couldn’t walk out the door. Glowering, I held him by the shoulders and firmly reminded him that: 1. No one else would be hanging out on the school playground an hour before school. 2. It is technically against the rules to hang out on the playground (sans adult) until 15 minutes before school starts. My son holds little regard for rules or common sense, so I found myself in one of our oil-and-water arguments that always makes me want to bang my head against the wall.

Midway through this quarrel, it dawned on me that I needed to switch gears entirely and run upstairs to rouse my daughter. Unlike Owen, Jane does not like getting up. I know she’s at the age where she should be more responsible for herself, but these days I have to be a total bit** for her to even attain consciousness: I shout at her for a little while, pull back her covers, turn on all the lights in the bedroom, etc. This particular morning, moving at a glacial speed, Jane was not anywhere close to being ready (no breakfast, no teeth-brushing, homework scattered about, etc.) when her ride pulled into our driveway. The swear-words were knocking around in my brain, and I had to do some deep yoga breathing to stay in control. 

Being a mom is hard enough. Factor in a couple wacko kids and a morning from he**, and it makes me want to lose my sh*t.

I’m not sure why I torture myself every year by giving up effective, natural, short-term pain relief that is proven by researchers. I’d like to imagine that it somehow makes me a better person. But who am I kidding? Only 30 more fu**ing days until Easter. 

“There had been a Tupperware container of bad language sitting off to the side in her head, and now she’d opened it and all those crisp, crunchy words were lovely and fresh, ready to be used."

From The Husband’s Secret,

by Liane Moriarty  

Oldies

Me, age 41
Caroline, age 12
Jane, age 12

One of the more distressing aspects of my daughters growing up is that they now take turns sitting in the front seat of the car while I drive. Sometimes it’s nice having them next to me – except when it comes to the radio.

It is almost comical how they flip through station after station – repeatedly, relentlessly – until they find an acceptable song to listen to. I try to pick my battles with them; this is one I have given up, but it drives me crazy. 

I wish they would land on a decent station and just stick with it, but they press that evil little “seek” button with all their might, hurtling their way through a jumble of static and commercials and obnoxious DJs, assaulting me with an annoying amount of noise pollution. But I’m even more bothered by the fact that I cannot seem to figure out what, to them, constitutes a suitable song. Based on their past preferences, I’ve tried to come up with some sort of algorithm to help me determine what they like/don’t like so I can anticipate their next move (Will they keep the station on Adele’s “Hello” or should I gear up for a switch?), but the only data I’ve collected consists of the following:

• They used to like Justin Bieber, but now he is intolerable. (Which is a shame because I think his new song, “Sorry,” is super catchy.)
• Taylor Swift is a huge no.
• Selena Gomez is a maybe.
• Thumbs up to Ellie Goulding, Sia, The Weeknd, and Demi Lovato.
• All of the above statements are subject to change without notice.   

As if this isn’t maddening enough, there’s more: depending on the day, my daughters aren’t always in agreement with each other about what is cool/not cool to listen to. For example, this is a typical exchange between Daughter in Front Seat and Daughter in Back Seat:

Daughter in Back Seat (clearly frustrated by inability to hover over the “seek” button as evidenced by indignant sighing): “Can you turn the station? I hate this song.”    

Daughter in Front Seat (clearly relishing having control of the radio as evidenced by smug look on face): “I like this song. Wait until you’re in the front seat and then you can listen to whatever you want.”

And so on. All while I long to be alone in my car, listening to the soothing voices of NPR.

Notably, there is one thing that my girls remain in complete solidarity about. It’s their abhorrence of what they call “the oldies.” To me, the oldies are the Stones, the Beatles, the Eagles and Zeppelin. Classic rock that has stood the test of time with its enduring awesomeness. Right?

Nope. My girls consider the oldies to be anything circa 2000, give or take. This means they pretty much despise every song from the 80s and 90s that defined my childhood and adolescence. As they sail up and down the FM dial, I’ll hear a scrap of a melody that conjures up memories so rich I can taste them, and they will flip the station without a second thought. Modern English’s “I Melt With You”, REM’s “Shiny Happy People”, Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round”, ‘Til Tuesday’s “Voices Carry”, Rush’s “Tom Sawyer”, Indigo Girls’ “Galieo.” All of them, scorned. My heart, crushed.

Now and then I try to pipe in with a subtle suggestion – “Hey, girls, why don’t you keep this song on for just a minute or two?” – but they look at me with disdain. “That’s an oldie, Mom,” they say. “We don’t listen to oldies.”

***

I always hear people say that age is relative. To their point, most of the time I don’t feel old. Usually, I still feel like my younger self, just masquerading as a mom and wife with responsibilities, a job, and laundry to do. Even though my daughters would argue that I am ancient (their word), it seems like only yesterday I was cruising around with my best friends from high school, singing BoDeans’ “Good Things” at the top of our lungs.

I suppose I should enjoy these days of carting around my girls and being the target of their banter. Because before I know it, they will be old enough to drive themselves.

Speech bubble

Me, age 41
Jane, age 12

I am sad to report that my daughter’s head resembles an oil slick.

I love her to bits, but I am totally grossed out by the greasy sheen of her hair, which was once – before the dawn of these rocky tween years – soft and clean-looking.

I attribute most of her greasiness to hormones, but I’ve certainly wondered if she’s doing a sufficient job of shampooing/conditioning/rinsing/etc. As a result, I have not only asked her to provide me with specific details of what goes on behind the shower curtain, but I’ve actually given her a hands-on tutorial of how things should shake down. (You can imagine the vigorous eye-rolling on her part during this particular conversation.) Regrettably, nothing makes a difference. So, as a mom, I guess I have no choice but to embrace the stage she’s at, greasy hair and all.  

What I can’t seem to get over, though, is what other people are thinking when they look at her: That girl really needs to wash her hair. What kind of mom lets her daughter out of the house looking like that? Take a shower, kid. And so on and so forth.

I have the potential to drive myself crazy dwelling on this, so I stop and think of my good friend Shannon. The mom of three boys, Shannon believes our lives would be infinitely easier if we could just employ speech bubbles above our heads. These speech bubbles would follow us around and communicate key information to the general public that we wish to convey but don’t have the time or energy or guts to say on our own. Shannon is smart.

If I could magically have a speech bubble right now, it would say:

Yes, I know my daughter’s hair is greasy. She takes showers, but her hormones are on overdrive. Please remember how awkward it is to exist in a pre-teen body. I’m sure you were no beauty queen at this age. 

Just imagining these words bobbing above my head brings me a degree of tranquility and composure as I spend each day with my daughter and her enthusiastic sebaceous glands.

I’ve talked to other friends about Shannon’s splendid idea and they all love the idea of having speech bubbles – because really, what mom hasn’t been stuck in a situation where the spoken word is difficult, inaccessible, or not entirely appropriate?

The friends I chatted with were quick to offer creative and painfully spot-on examples of the speech bubbles they wish they could utilize during their more uncomfortable and frustrating moments. Here is a sampling:  

Nothing to look at here, people. Keep moving.

I appear less sensitive than I am.

I really love my baby, but today he is really annoying me.

Please be kind. My life is hard.

I could use a kind word.

I look more capable of life than I actually am.

I want MY mommy.

Could a giant hole please open up, NOW?

One friend went a little deeper with her speech bubble:

Boys have emotions, too. People say, ‘You’re lucky to have boys. They’re so much easier. Girls are so emotional.’ But trust me, my boys are emotional too. They are just taught by society that they have to hide it.  

And finally, another of my friends (with a particularly great sense of humor) told me about the speech bubble she often relies on when interacting with her own children:

I know I’m supposed to care about what you’re saying right now, but I don’t.

***

I love having a speech bubble. Even if no one is reading it, I’m more mentally balanced knowing that I can toss my words up into it and they’ll stick there. Just like they would in my sweet daughter’s hair.  

   

Earbuds

A new and troubling trend is occurring in my house.

Until recently, my family pretty much ignored everything that came out of my mouth. (Check this out.) After years of being forced to repeat myself numerous times to get anyone’s attention, I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that no one listens to me around here. It’s become my normal.

However, things are changing and I’m not enjoying the direction we’re headed. It’s no longer about simply being ignored: my kids and husband don’t even hear me anymore. I mean this in a literal sense; they actually cannot perceive when I am speaking to them.

This is because Santa Claus (and by Santa Claus I do not mean yours truly; I mean a certain someone to whom I am wed) thought it would be a brilliant idea to give our children super-cool earbuds for Christmas. In juicy neon colors, these earbuds are essentially the technology equivalent of candy – showy, irresistible, alluring candy. Case in point, since Christmas morning our kids have employed their earbuds in every possible way known to humankind: with the iPad, with their iPod touches, with the laptop computer, with their clock radios, etc. etc. The earbuds have come to look like absurd, fluorescent appendages dangling from their heads.  

At first, I kind of liked how serene it was in my house. With all of the kids attached to electronic devices via their ears, it meant that they weren’t arguing with each other or complaining to me. But I quickly discovered that this tranquility comes with a hefty price tag: the earbuds are physically blocking my voice from entering their cochlea.

This is a problem.

For example, when it’s time for dinner, my usual “IT’S TIME TO EAT” hollered two or three or eight times from the kitchen no longer suffices. Instead, I have to go from room to room, locating my children in the shadowy nooks where they play Fruit Ninja and listen to Selena Gomez. Then, I must tap them on the shoulder to indicate my presence, whereupon they yell, “YOU SCARED ME, MOM!” because they didn’t see or hear me coming. Finally, I physically tug the earbuds from their ears in order to tell them that dinner is ready. Because they feel the need to match the decibel level of the music being piped directly into their brains, they respond “OK, MOM” at the top of their lungs.

But it’s not just at mealtime that I’m frustrated. Yesterday morning, for instance, I wanted to let my kids know that I was leaving to run some errands. As usual, it took some degree of effort to pinpoint their whereabouts. Jane was the last to be discovered – interestingly, behind the Christmas tree, listening to music (with her earbuds, obviously). I motioned to her that I was departing, and she replied (without removing the earbuds), “OK, MOM” in that bellowing voice I’m trying my best to get used to. Then, I did an awkward pantomime to indicate that I loved her. She nodded her head and yelled, “I LOVE YOU TOO, MOM.”

It must be said that my husband is really the one who kick-started this earbud trend when he purchased noise-cancelling headphones last year. I wanted to ask him a few questions in order to write this essay, so I tracked him down a few nights ago. It took a little bit of time because he didn’t respond when I called his name; not surprisingly, I found him sitting in front of his computer while actually wearing the noise-cancelling headphones. I had to pat him on the shoulder to get his attention and motion for him to remove the headphones. He obliged and proceeded to give me some good details.   

He told me that he initially bought his noise-cancelling headphones to wear when traveling on airplanes, but he admitted that there are a few other benefits to using them. Specifically:

1. “They keep my ears nice and warm during the cold winter months.”

2. “They sort of prevent me from hearing the kids while I do my paperwork on the computer.”

When I pointed out that the noise-cancelling headphones also probably prevent him from hearing me, he murmured, “Isn’t it wonderful?” while snapping the headphones back in place.  

***

I’ve been talking with my sister Annie about this ridiculous earbud situation, and she thinks I should start wearing a pair myself – even if I’m not actually listening to anything. She thinks I should make my kids and husband come and find me and tap me on the shoulder when they need me so they can see how it feels. “Give them a taste of their own medicine,” she says.

Annie might be on to something. Or maybe I should just chuck my children's earbuds in the trash.

Either way, I haven’t reached any conclusions yet. I’m just busy making dinner for a family that cannot hear me when I announce that it’s done.   

Happy New Year, dear friends! I hope your 2016 is filled with comfort, good memories, and children who listen to everything you say.

Shirt

Me, age 41

My friend Tonya is a really good mom. I look up to her for many reasons, but particularly because she handles motherhood with a great deal of composure.

She has three boys and never seems ruffled by them. I’m sure she must get crabby like the rest of us, but the way she stays calm makes me drool with envy.

Recently, Tonya was talking to me about Devin, her youngest son, who was having a shutdown over his favorite shirt, which was not hanging in the closet.   

“I was downstairs getting breakfast ready,” Tonya said, “and he was upstairs in his room screaming ‘Wheeeeeere iiiiiiiiiis myyyyyyyyyy faaaaavorite shiiiiiiiiiiiiirt?’”

“So what did you do?” I asked. (If I can emulate how Tonya handles a shirt-meltdown, I can maybe be a better mom.)

In her good-natured way, she replied, “Well, of course I just told him to find another shirt to wear.”

“That’s it?” I said, a little disappointed that her response was so… simple. “Did he find another shirt to wear?”

“Sure,” Tonya said. “He carried on for a while but finally realized his favorite shirt was not going to materialize in his closet so he’d better get dressed in something.”

This conversation with Tonya really got me thinking. Thousands (millions?) of words flow from our mouths every day as we go about our business of mothering. Most of these words fall on deaf ears (in my house, anyway), but what about the ones that our kids actually listen to? These words can wield power to encourage, instruct, and make things better – but don’t they also have the capacity to royally screw up our kids?

What I mean is this: There are a hundred different ways that Tonya could have responded to Devin during his tantrum. Depending on the day, the circumstance, the weather, and/or how much sleep she got the night before, she might have taken one of the following approaches:

§  “Quit screaming! You have 50 shirts hanging in your closet that you can wear! Put one on and get over yourself.”

§  “You can wear your favorite shirt tomorrow, once I’m finished washing and drying yet another load of laundry.”

§  “Take a deep breath and calm down. No one is going to help you find your favorite shirt when you are acting like a two-year-old.”

Furthermore, the way she says these hypothetical words can add a whole other layer of significance. She could say them with a shrug, with a smile, or – like me – with a vein visibly and quite unattractively pulsing up the right side of her forehead.

This is what I’m struggling with: How do we, as moms, know we are saying the right thing? How do we not consign our children to years of therapy because of words that have thoughtlessly shot out from our lips and messed with their innocent little heads?

I never anticipated that my experience of being a mother would carry with it so many variables. I used to think that there was a right way of doing things and a wrong way; now it seems that it’s all gray.

***

Happily, there is more to this story. When I showed Tonya the paragraphs that you just read, making sure she was OK with me putting her kid’s favorite-shirt shutdown-story on the internet, her response was generous and expansive: she gave me even more material to work with.  

First, she admitted the following: “My son has dozens of shirts and I had no idea which one was his favorite. As he was starting to melt down, I went through the closet, pulling out shirt after shirt, saying ‘Is this the one?’ ‘Is this the one?’ until there were no more shirts left.”

(I love this detail. Thank you for that, Tonya.)  

She went on, “Some days I’m more affected by my kids than others. Sometimes I can handle a situation calmly, and sometimes I can’t. I couldn’t even tell you what percentage it is. Either way, I don’t beat myself up about it.”

Tonya graciously threw in a bonus story to make me feel even better about the fact that I don’t always know how to handle things like rages about missing shirts. She said, “Yesterday, I told my oldest son that I was sick of him bitching at me every morning. He said, ‘Why are you swearing at me? I learned at school that you should back away from parents or adults when they swear!’ So I told him, ‘TELL YOUR TEACHERS TO TELL YOU TO STOP YELLING AT ME.’”

(Tonya, thank you for making me simultaneously laugh and cringe. That one is a classic.)

She finished off by saying, “I don’t expect to be perfect, nor do I want my kids to think that I am – or that I want them to be perfect. Bad moments happen and mistakes are made. We all say things we shouldn’t, but you know what? Sometimes we can all breathe better after exchanges like that.”

My take-away from Tonya is that maybe there isn’t one right thing to say in a messy situation. And that maybe I shouldn’t take things so seriously.

After all – looping back to Devin and his poor shirt gone astray – Tonya kindly chided me, “Laura, I told you that story in the first place only because I thought the strong emotion Devin had for his shirt was so funny.”

And yes, it was funny. I had forgotten that. Thanks for the reminder. It seems that my sense of humor sometimes disappears without warning, just like Devin's shirt.    

Ottoman

Me, age 41

Messes are overtaking my life.

 

I’ve just yelled at my kids to clean up their stuff from the family room, because I’m sick to death of stepping over Pokemon cards, novels, homework assignments and tennis shoes.

 

Why is it that the family room always ends up as a repository for their belongings?

 

(Why is it that the entire house always ends up as a repository for their belongings?)

 

After my kids remove their junk (only to dump it in their bedrooms to be dealt with on a different day), I tidy up the rest of the room. I straighten my stack of magazines, fluff the throw pillows, etc. As I drape a blanket over the back of the sofa, I am very dismayed to catch sight of dried chocolate on my ottoman.

 

Because my ottoman is made of brown leather, the shmear of dried chocolate pretty much blends in. I scratch at it with my nail and wonder how long it has been there. I also wonder which of my three kids has been (illicitly) eating chocolate in the family room.

 

But my questions, as it turns out, are entirely unnecessary. Because, as I sniff the alleged chocolate beneath my nail, I realize very quickly that it is not chocolate.

 

“Oh my God!” I screech, running for the bathroom. “OH MY GOD THERE IS DRIED POOP ON MY OTTOMAN!” I’m panting with distress as I wash my hands. I mean, I know my house is messy (show me a house with three kids that isn’t), but now it’s also un-hygienic?

 

I do some frantic Googling to ascertain the most effective way to remove the dried poop from my ottoman, but the removal of the dried poop is no longer the most pressing thing on my mind: Why was there dried poop on my ottoman in the first place? 

 

This is what I know for sure:

• Although he contributes significantly to the overall untidiness of our home, I think I can rule out my husband as the culprit. 
• It was not my dog. I’m sure of this because she is a miniature dachshund and has a difficult time physically mounting the ottoman.
• It couldn’t have been my dog’s poop tracked in from the yard, because it would have been all over the floors, too.

That leaves one possibility. I yell up to my kids and tell them to come downstairs right this very second.  

When they report to the family room, I am quivering with vexation and unanswered questions. In my frenzied state, I see them as suspects in a police lineup. Which one is guilty?

I take a deep breath to indicate to my children that I am calm and in control. Painstakingly, I ask them, “Why. Was. There. Dried. Poop. On. The. Ottoman?” I’m expecting someone to crack. I watch for any facial expressions that might give away the perpetrator – a trickle of sweat along the temple or a flushing of the cheeks – but instead, they all look at me like I’m off my rocker.

The rest of our conversation is a joke. I show them the ottoman, but because I’ve just cleaned it, my evidence is gone. They think this whole situation is laughable, because, COME ON, MOM, WHY WOULD WE PUT POOP ON THE OTTOMAN? SERIOUSLY, THAT’S GROSS.

My kids stand by their innocence, which leads me to contemplate a host of disturbing questions:

• Can someone unintentionally get poop on an ottoman? If so, how?
• If a kid doesn’t mean to get poop on an ottoman, are they doing other disgusting things that they’re unaware of?
• If there is dried poop on my ottoman, what else will I find in my house someday?

I can’t begin to process any of this, so I wave off my kids. “Just go back to making more messes,” I say. “You guys are good at that.” They roll their eyes and leave the room.  

I glare at my ottoman, because it really signifies everything that is discouraging about my life right now. I purchased it years ago when I had confidence in my domestic abilities and faith in my kids to make smarter choices. I had hoped it would lend comfort and style to a room where civilized grown-ups could enjoy a nice glass of wine every now and then.

Instead, it has been defiled. And there are no civilized grown-ups in sight.

But I do have a bottle of white in the fridge!!

I pour myself a glass and decide that none of this is the poor ottoman’s fault, so my wine and I sit upon on it with a heavy sigh. We are without a tidy ending or sense of resolution, and this (like so many aspects of motherhood) almost puts me over the edge.  

But I give in and accept my reality, because there's nothing a little Pinot Grigio can’t fix. But damn: my wine glass better be clean.