There is a very small, but significant part that breaks in you after that third shit clean up. In a row. Only pausing to catch the other child you birthed from sliding across it. Regardless of how funny the resulting picture would be. Let it go, #instamom.
But there you sit. A bit broken by it all. Reaching for a mop (read: old swiffer) and you can’t understand how a nearly four year old, who has been potty trained for almost two years, would all of a sudden shit repeatedly on the ground. And you want to be pissed (you ARE pissed) but you know that won’t solve anything and you know he is sad and you know that something bigger is going on.
You know lots of things. You are mom. Unfortunately, you just don’t care.
You blame the broken part.
I’m no stranger to baby blues. It’s not even my color, but I wear it enough you would think it my signature shade. Besides, it goes well with leggings.
But these particular blues, seem to be contagious. The whole house is shaken by them. We’re angry beings blaming each other for our foul moods and aching limbs; side effects of our ailment.
We all need a hug. But it’s hard to time those between the tantrums. You could end up with a bloody nose.
Just another thing to clean off the floor.
My son is turning four this month. My daughter, two, the week after. And our house is a ball of energy, big emotions, and not nearly enough walls to hold it all in.
We go outside. It’s Houston. We run back in to avoid another burn.
Just when I think we’ve hit a sweet spot: kids playing together, sleeping through the nights, no new stains in the rug; something new comes along, pushes me on the ground, and shouts: NO NO NO, don’t you dare take that breath! I have tons of new crap for you to stumble through. Go read another FB post and panic.
I don’t need a simple fix. No oil or mini-vacay or dare I say, more wine (BLASPHEMY!). Right now, I just need a new swiffer. This one reeks of spoiled milk and the second round of poop.
He apologies shortly after the SHIT STORM ’17 (#neverforget). Apologizes for the poop and the tears and for not understanding his body. I want to hold him forever.
My broken part is patched with the leftover Goober he asked for and accidentally smeared on his sister’s cheek. I wiped it off and forgot it there. She thinks it’s funny; she licks me. He tells her not to lick people. She licks him. He laughs. She hugs him. This time, he hugs her back.
It’s as simple (it’s as hard) as that.
But if we can find laughter after scrubbing shit floors, I think we’ll beat these blues and come out a bit more colorful.
And not just because the small one occasionally eats crayons.
I really need another swiffer.
Also, yesterday was Harry P’s birthday. I promised to give him a shout out. #hugaGryffindortoday