More Memories: Promise Not to Judge Me!

More excerpts (that I find particularly amusing this morning) from my diary:

We move towards the kid-deploying teachers waiting to unload the kids from the cars.  I turn around to check on the boy because I hear the hideous soy formula sloshing around in his bottle—never a good sign.  

“Why does his bottle stink so much?  It smells like feet.”  A shares bad naturedly.  “I hate that I have to share a seat with him sometimes because the seat belt smells like formula.  It is disgusting.  Can’t you steam clean it or something?”

He has somehow removed the plastic nipple from his bottle and the soy formula is flowing out unregulated all over his clothing, carseat, and my car’s interior.  Especially A’s part-time seat belt.  I grab the bottle, nearly empty of its eight ounces of stinking fluid.  The car now truly reeks.  He is crying.  It may be because he is soaked through.  It may be because I have taken his bottle.  It may be because his pacifier was earlier launched onto the floormats. It may be for no reason at all.  I gingerly place the defunct bottle into the cupholder beside my seat.   A wrinkles her nose dramatically.  

******

I carry the babies, one on each hip, towards the bedrooms when he is finished drinking, as evidenced by his launching his stinky drink onto the floor, sending off-white soy splatters all over the grey tiles of the sunroom.

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We head out toward the kitchen, B happily “dada”-ing, and the boy whining and moaning along behind me.  He falls, dramatically, onto the floor by my feet when I stop at the sink.  He cries, while carefully holding his pacifier between his trembling lips, like an experienced smoker, who can balance a cig while talking.

******

Channel 44 is “Say Yes to the Dress.”  It is a highly overrated show.  I turn off the t.v. and sit down on the couch grumpily; B scrambles out of my lap, wanting to be set loose on the floor.  The babies get into the dog food again.  The babies crawl into the hairy dog beds.  The babies play with a stink bug, and get “stunk” on.  The babies pull magnets from the fridge, and open the lazy susan, and unload foods from it, and terrorize the dogs by playing with their balls and bones.  And I follow in their wake, cleaning and cleaning.  They begin to have melt downs.  They are over-tired.  I decide to switch to Plan B.  I serve an uneventful lunch, punctuated by the usual tossing of beverages and subsequent crying.  

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 I try to play with the babies—you know, with toys—but, they mostly want to suck on household items, like the remote controllers, my phone, a Tylenol syringe, B’s hairbrush, a chap stick tube, the wipes container, and the ever-popular G’s phone charger.  Before long, it is time for us to leave to pick up A at school.  I am exhausted from trying to save and wipe down all of the items that they have attacked and infected in the past hour.

******

I turn into my driveway.  I stop once I am off the road.  I exit the car to pick up the mail: oh, joy, my Chase card statement and a Clipper magazine.  The babies are screaming as I walk back towards the car.  They always scream when I get out.  I deposit the mail in my center console and return to the curbside to pick up the recycling container.  I set it gingerly atop my car, so as not to scratch the paint.  I pull away too quickly, forgetting the container is aboard.  I see it fall off in the rearview mirror.  I stop the car again, get out, retrieve the container, and put it back on my roof.  I drive very slowly and cautiously the rest of the way up the driveway.  I arrive outside my defunct garage door at 4:40.  I am thankful, just this once, that it is broken, because it saved me from driving into the garage with the recycling container up top, and having it scraped off the car, which is what normally happens on recycling day nights.  I manually lift the garage door for the millionth time today, and I manually lift the recycling container off the car and return it to its place inside of the garage.  Babies are screaming as I walk back towards the car, as per usual.  I pull into the garage and turn off the car.  

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Once inside, I put B down on the rug, and she crawls off toward her toy boxes.  There is a wet, yellow-brown stain spreading on her pants near the edge of her diaper, I notice as her butt recedes into the distant corners of the den.  I grab diapering supplies and grab B to change her.  Her diaper area is still red and raw when I wipe away the liquid poop.  I smear Target-brand Aquiphor onto the area and let her crawl off naked to air out.  The boy toddles over and pats B’s bare back before turning around and trying to sit on her.  I pry him off of her, as she cries softly.  

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I go to the bathroom and look at my own reflection.  It shocks me, slightly.  For some reason, I pictured my hair looking better and a little bit of eye makeup.  Alas, I wasn’t even able to dry my hair today, let alone open the squeaky closet door past the babies' rooms to apply makeup.  At least I am showered and dressed in clean clothes for my husband’s much anticipated arrival.  I decide to wait until he gets home to start the meatloaf.  

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G returns to finish the mashed potatoes.  Hearing him turn on the mixer, I take B to the kitchen.  He is blending them in our non-stick stock pot.  I did that once and scratched up the non-stick surface, and he got really mad.  Being G, he had read all of the paperwork that came with the pots and pans, so he knew that you weren’t supposed to put them in the dishwasher or use metal utensils on them, etcetera.  That is how he is.  I did not know that I should not be mixing potatoes in them until he accosted me in the midst of the act several months ago…so, imagine my surprise to see Mr. Instruction Reader and Enforcer defacing our “investment” with the same mixer.

“What are you doing?”  I question him in a mocking tone, because I really don’t care about our “investment.” 

 

“Well, you already ruined it and the chipped non-stick surface is poisoning us already.”  He is clearly still miffed.

I want to get rid of all of our non-stick “investments” and switch to cast iron.  Non-stick surfaces are made with carcinogenic materials that leach into our food while we cook.

His mashed potatoes are usually fantastic.  He is the designated potato maker of the household.  Tonight, however, they are looking dry and crumbly.  He is more calorie conscious than I, so he probably tried to cut back on the butter or milk.  I dare not express my opinions, or I will not have a potato-maker next time.  He is still mixing, wondering aloud if they should be more creamy.  Yes.   The oven timer reads 00:00:42.  I count down for him.  He pronounces the potatoes complete, and I remove the crispy-coated, savory-smelling meatloaf from the oven.