ASSuaging the Guilt

Hold it right there, bub. This is a two parter all about my bodily-fluid-filled Live Nativity experience at church last week. If you haven’t read the first part, click here.

Back so soon? So I can assume that you are up to speed then? You get a gold star, sugar. Let’s continue then, shall we? And now, the riveting conclusion to Urine Angel: 

So, as you can see, I was feeling purdy dang guilty about my poor, sweet, six year old daughter “Klepto” shivering in a pool of her own pee pee and tears for possibly 15 minutes or more, alone, uncomfortable, and scared in a church powder room while I was outside learning my part as the Behind The Scenes (BTS) Mom for the Wisemen/King Herod scene. Well, my Mama didn’t raise no quitter, and I’m fixin’ to do the same with my brood. So I took my baby home, peeled her wet costume and multiple layers of clothes off, stuck her in a steamy bubble bath with a mug of hot cocoa, promised her it would all be better in the morning, and smothered her with love until she drifted off to sleep. The next morning I called the director of our Live Nativity, told her why Klepto missed the dress rehearsal the night before, and requested that I be reassigned to scene # 8, the big finale to the Live Nativity in which Klepto was cast as an angel.  

The director was more than happy to recast me so that I could be with my Tinkling Angel in the stable. But apparently that clever crusader for Christ had a hidden agenda, which I learned the hard way a few hours later. 

You see, once she got wind of my ability to clean up a messy situation, she knew I’d be the perfect person to supervise the stable scene.

Cue the baby donkey. 

That’s right, people. We had a real live baby donkey in my scene. 

I didn’t know much about donkeys before that night, but I do now. 

For starters, I now know that donkeys like to kick. Pair that character trait with a stable full of animal loving children and you have yourselves a perfect storm in the making. I pretty much spent half the night keeping the kids from getting their teeth knocked out. I swear, if I had a nickel for every time I said, “Girls… please don’t hug the donkey from behind. She’s gonna kick you in the head,” I’d have at least enough for a Venti Latte.

The other main thing I learned about donkeys that night is that they poop A LOT. Good Lord Almighty… they surely are the most regular mammals I’ve ever encountered up close and personal. 

So, in addition to running defense for ass-kicking in the literal sense, I also found myself on perpetual-pooper-scooper duty. You see, donkey poop is very stinky. I’m talkin’ STANK, ya’ll. And that cute little donkey would just lift her tail ever so slightly and let about a dozen or so sugarplum-sized balls of poop fall right out of her ass-ass and then she would stand right there as if nothing ever happened, stepping in it and thereby wafting the fumes everywhere. I was thinking that the donkey might end up kicking one of us at some point, and I didn’t want one of us to get kicked with a donkey-poop-covered-hoof, so I felt like it was the clear course of action. I’d much rather be kicked in the teeth with a clean hoof, than a poopy one, wouldn’t you? I mean really. But also, it was stench management. I just couldn’t have my audience focusing on the donkey stank and not on the message of our joyous scene! 

DOH! Watch your step, Little Angel!

Now, the two teens playing Mary and Joseph were just as cute as can be. Mary especially just captured my heart. She was so sweet and wholesome and good with the little angels.  She would get up between scenes and high five the little ones and give them sugar cookies that she had baked at home and brought with her to share. But as cute and sweet and good as she was, there was no way on God’s green earth that she was gonna stop her texting and get anywhere near that beast of burden or his donkey-doody. And Joseph? Fahgetaboutit. He was all, “Uh, excuse me, Miss Iris? The donkey, like, pooped…” and “Uh, like, Miss Iris? The donkey totally, like, pooped again…. ” So clearly, it was me or nobody. And honestly, once you have a few babies, a little donkey poop is nothing. In fact, I’d venture to say that picking up after a donkey was perhaps the least repulsive thing I’d done all day. Yeah, motherhood… those with weak stomachs need not apply. 

But here’s the thing, like most parenting tasks, picking up donkey dung is tricky. I did not want to have MY pearly whites knocked down my throat by this ass while I was doing the dirty work, no-siree-Bob. So, I had to hold the donkey by the head, turn her around, and scoop with one hand while I held her head with the other. That takes skill, I tell ya. Who knew I was such an ass-whisperer? And all of this had to be done quickly, in between scenes, while keeping the little angles from wandering off or spilling hot chocolate all over their white sheets. Oh, did I mention that I did all of this with a kitchen towel on my head and a bathrobe over my coat so I would blend in with the cast and look like a shepherd? Shoot… if my life were any more glamorous, I’d be signing autographs at the Piggly Wiggly.  

My daughter and I were out there for 5 hours, freezing our tails off and bringing joy to the world. Between the tinkle trauma the night before and the mountains of mule mess, it kinda sucked for me, actually. But Klepto loved it, and that’s what it’s all about. We totally bonded, we got to experience the thrill of not giving up when things got messy, and we got to learn about the real meaning of Christmas and even more about donkeys. By the way, donkey coats are surprisingly soft. I would have thought that they’d feel kinda wiry or coarse. But no. Soft as a bunny. Just a joy to touch and a nice natural hand warmer too. 

My family members who did the guided tour said that our scene was by far the best, and then they swore that they weren’t just saying that because Klepto and I were in it. I’m so glad I signed my baby up for this and got to be there with her to see her shine in her little halo and make the audience giggle when she upstaged Mary every time with her enthusiastic singing and improvisational dance moves.  We’ll definitely do it again next year and now that we’ve survived it once, we’ll be even more prepared. Of course, with my luck and skills, they’ll probably throw in a couple of spitting camels and some sheep with irritable bowel syndrome, but that’s fine… it will just make me feel more at home. Bring it on, beeotch.  

I hope ya’ll are having holidays filled with joy and love and the kind of messes that make family time so memorable and funny for years to come! Seasons Greetings to you and yours!

with love,

The Bearded Iris

©2008 The Bearded Iris

Urine Angel

Desperately seeking a way to make Christmas more meaningful to my kids this year, and flat out refusing to buy one of those trendy “The Elf on the Shelf” thingies, I signed up my kids to be in the Live Nativity at my church this year. 

In hindsight, maybe not such a good idea. 

But in theory, it seemed like a great opportunity at the time. 

My church does it every year. They set up 8 different scenes outside and a guide leads groups through a candlelit tour of the Christmas story. The thing lasts for 3 and 1/2 hours as groups are ushered through the 8 scenes, one after another. Last year over 700 people waited in line for upwards of an hour to be lead through this dramatic recreation. It is a huge deal at my church, and throughout my community in general. The newspapers usually come, as well as people from other parishes near and far. 

Until this year, the powers-that-be have cast only high school students in all the roles. This is the first year they opened it up for the whole parish. So naturally, I jumped at the chance for my overly dramatic six year old daughter, “Klepto,” to be in the choir of angels celebrating the birth of Jesus in song. I was totally fantasizing about the cute pictures and videos we’d get of her hanging out with Mary and Joseph in the stable, her little wire halo askew. And I thought she would LOVE it. This is a girl who loves the spotlight. She sings more than she talks. Her natural form of locomotion is a sashay/kick ball change. And isn’t it our job as parents to give them experiences that will help them discover and develop their natural talents? 

But maybe six years old is not developmentally ready to stand outside in the bitter cold for 5 hours dressed like an angel and singing Joy to the World over and over and over. Yes, over the past 48 hours I learned precisely why this event has been limited to teenagers in the past. 

First, let me just say that we are having a record breaking cold spell here in North Georgia. Two days ago it never got above the freezing point – all day. That is very rare here, and one of the reasons I have chosen this area for my home. Bitter cold… remember that now. It’s important. 

So Klepto was assigned to the final scene (#8)… the big climax when Mary and Joseph are in the stable, awaiting the birth of Baby Jesus so they can place him in the straw-filled manger. For whatever reason, the director of the event assigned me to be the “behind the scenes” adult for scene 5, in which Kind Herod tells the Magi to report back to him when they find the newborn King. I don’t know why I didn’t insist that I be assigned to the same scene as Klepto, except to say that when we arrived for the first practice three days ago and I saw what a hectic, disorganized cluster fuck this whole production was, I didn’t have the heart to make a special request to the clearly overwhelmed director who definitely had her hands full. Did I mention that there were 108 people involved in the show and that there were going to be live animals in some of the scenes? 

Yeah. So, we showed up for the first practice on December 21st, which was just an indoor script run through. I figured I’d be pretty close by if Klepto needed me, and that the director must have had a reason for separating us, so I didn’t challenge it. Mistake #1. 

That night we braved the mall crowds to purchase a halo and wings at a local party store. Shopping at this time of year is NOT for wimps. Further proof that crazy, overcompensating parents like me will do anything for our children. Oy. 

The next night, December 22, we had our one dress rehearsal. I knew we would be outdoors from 5-7 PM and it was below freezing, so I dressed my little angel in lots of layers. Naturally, we were running late and I was scrambling to grab everything we needed and get her in the car with her white sheet and wings and halo. We were very rushed. This is nothing new for my kids, and they constantly impress me with their ability to quickly transition from one thing to another without fuss. They are pretty used to compensating for their crazy Mama. Really good kids. 

So we got to the dress rehearsal and had to wait around for a long time in the social hall until our two scenes were rehearsed. We were totally overdressed in way too many layers to be inside, but I didn’t want to take any layers off since we’d be outside at any moment with snot-cicles forming from our noses. We were hot. We were cranky. And we were surrounded by about fifty other hot, cranky, undersupervised children running amok while their stage-motherish moms sat and gossiped and yelled things across the room like “Tyler! Stop hitting your brother with that stick! It is a shepherd’s staff… not a light saber!” It was pretty chaotic, and quite an anticlimactic “hurry up and wait” period of time. 

At one point Klepto asked me, “What if I have to go to the bathroom?” To which I inquired, “Do you?” and she emphatically said, “No. Just wondering.”

“Are you sure? Because I can take you right now. There is a bathroom right over there. This would be the perfect time to go since we are just waiting around.” 

“No Mama. I’m fine. I don’t have to go.” Mistake #2. Here’s a parenting tip for those of you as stupid as I am: never, never, never “ask” if they have to go when you have a calm minute before the storm. Just take their stubborn clueless ass into the nearest loo and force them to go. And if they ever randomly ask you anything potty-related, they are clearly thinking about it and therefore probably have to go. Duh. Still can’t believe what a moron I am. You know where I’m going with this, don’t you? 

Well, my scene was coming up, so I asked another Mom I knew there to keep an eye on my little angel while I was out blocking my scene, and she said she would and that her 11 year old daughter would help babysit. I introduced them all to each other and thought I had done my parenting part for the time being. 

I went outside when my scene was called and stood around with the adorable Magi with the towels on their heads and the arrogant, uncostumed teen who played King Herod and didn’t even have the decency to know his lines or even have a script nearby from which to read. Sheesh. The “We Three Kings” CD that I would have to start and stop on cue wasn’t ready, the lighting wasn’t ready, and the kids were all very cold and unenthusiastic. We’d be doing this scene LIVE the next night for three and a half straight hours. I was definitely having my doubts as to how we would be able to pull this off.  

I was only gone for about 20 minutes. 

As I was walking back into the social hall the mother I had asked to keep an eye on Klepto approached me in nothing short of a panic. 

“I’m so sorry!” she blurted. “I had to step out for my scene and my daughter didn’t realize that your daughter was in the bathroom.”

“What happened?” I tried to ask as calmly as possible. For Chrissakes – spit it out, woman! WHAT HAPPENED! 

“Well apparently your daughter is in the bathroom crying. She’s been in there for about 20 minutes. She wet her pants. Poor thing, couldn’t get the angel costume off in time. She’s pretty upset.” 

Oh shit.  

I quietly knocked on the bathroom door and walked in, and there she was, standing above a puddle of pee, shaking and crying so hard that she was having a hard time catching her breath. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks were completely tear streaked and snot was running down her face. Her angel costume was completely in disarray, like she had truly put up a good fight trying to get it off so she could get to the toilet. I could see with one glance that she was utterly and completely humiliated.

My heart broke. Literally, I felt it seize up and shatter into a million little pieces. 

I hugged her and rocked her and did a quiet “shh-shh-shh” in her ear for what seemed like a lifetime, brushing her hair out of her wet face with my hands and kissing her red cheeks. Her pants and long johns and socks and shoes were completely soaked through. She was cold and uncomfortable and frustrated. I wiped up the puddle on the floor as best as I could with paper towels and calmed her to the best of my ability, and then we exited the little powder room into the main social hall. The Mom I knew rushed up and apologized profusely. Naturally, I knew I didn’t have a change of clothes in my car, so there was no way to just clean her up and go on with the dress rehearsal. Besides, this poor little lamb was so far gone and distraught that I just wanted to get her home and into a hot bath.

Oh my God, the guilt. That poor child. She must have been so scared, standing alone in that bathroom for that long. How could I have left her like that? Why on Earth didn’t I have her go potty before we left? Why didn’t I insist that she go while we were waiting for our scenes? Why did I consent to be in a different scene from her? Why did I think that a six year old could handle an epic dramatic production? Why did God allow someone like me to breed? It is moments like this that make parents question everything.

Did Klepto recover? Did we return the next night to fulfill our destiny as part of the cast? Will I ever forgive myself for being such a shitty parent? Will I bring a tray of Vulva Candies to the cast party? Tune in next time for the dramatic conclusion to this intriguing tale of wonder and faith… The Bearded Iris’s Christmas Spectacular on Ice!

To read part 2 of this crazy tale, ASSuaging the Guilt, click here.

Sir Plucksalot

I go to church on Sundays. Well, most Sundays. OK… many Sundays. I’m a nice Catholic girl these days… have been for about 10 years, ever since I married into a big Italian Catholic family and officially converted. I know, I know, “nice Catholic girls” don’t publicly write about things like sex, drugs, and how much they vehemently do NOT love their neighbors, but I go to confession every now and then, so it’s cool. I was actually raised as a non-practicing PresbyJewian, but once my parents got divorced, it was a spiritual Free-for-All. That’s probably why I was so attracted to the majesty and ritual of the Catholic Church… I love the consistency and dependability of it. It makes me feel safe and loved. Awwww! Group hug!  

So listen, I want to give you a little heads-up, people. I am going to refer to and quote from the Bible in this post. If that is not your bag, baby, go ahead and leave now, I can take it. But, one thing you should know about Catholics – we don’t take the Bible literally. It is like the world’s oldest self-help book of fairy tales to us. We enjoy it, we respect it, but we don’t hang on every word. Combine that disclaimer with the fact that I personally am a little “off,” and you have the makings for some thought provoking and colorful blasphemy. Read on at your own risk. 

This past Sunday was a real hum-dinger at my church. First of all, I get a big kick out of the people watching element of attending a large Catholic church in an upper-middle class and increasingly hispanic but formerly rural area of the deep south. It is just a jambalaya of Glamour Magazine Fashion Don’ts, ya’ll. I don’t want to judge, because Lord knows I am no fashionista myself, but I do marvel at some of the choices women make on Sunday mornings. I believe that God is just happy when people show up and give him/her a little face-time; he/she does not care what you wear. But he/she probably doesn’t want to compete with you for the attention of the other parishioners! So ladies, save the hoochie jeans and low cut tank tops for date night. Seriously. I know I speak for others here… we can’t concentrate on our worship when we are ogling your fun parts. Personally, I’m a No-Denim-in-the-House-of-the-Lord kind of girl. But that is just me. I know I’m a little old fashioned on that one, but also, I don’t have a single pair of jeans that is appropriate for all that kneeling, unless I want to risk someone accidentally depositing their weekly donation envelope into the coin slot that peeks out of the back of my jeans every time I bend over. Not appropriate. 

Moving on. The first reading last Sunday was from the Book of Proverbs (31:9b-31). It went something like this: 

“A wife of noble character who can find?
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her
and lacks nothing of value…
Blah, blah, blah. Blabbity, blah, blah. 
…She sets about her work vigorously;
her arms are strong for her tasks…
blah blah –  more about being a good wife…
…She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy…
She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness….
…yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. I am lazy! Thank God I didn’t live in Biblical times!… 
AND THEN THE AHA MOMENT:
…Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear that day. I had been obsessing over my witch mole. I have one of those birth marks on my face that sticks out like someone glued half a skin-colored raisin to my cheek. When I was a little girl, it was just a dark “beauty mark” on my cheek like Cindy Crawford’s signature mole.  But now that I’m 38 and all hormonally out of whack from birthin’ so many millions of babies, my skin is changing. That once flat, dark, cute, quirky freckle is now a puffy pale witch mole. But wait, there’s more. There are actual hairs that grow out of it! No joke. Dark. Wiry. Hairs. Several hairs. Maybe even a bunch. It is disgusting. I pluck it daily. And I’m constantly touching it to see if a new hair has sprouted that needs to be immediately excised. STOP EVERYTHING! I have a mole hair. Be right back. My kids totally tease me for it too. Klepto says things like “Mommy? My teacher looks just like you! She is really pretty and has short brown hair just like you! Only, she doesn’t have pimples and moles, so she’s prettier.” Nice. I’m just waiting for someone to come at me like Austin Powers, totally mesmerized by it (in a bad way), and breaking into a fit of Tourette’s, shouting “MOLE! MOLE! MOLE-AY MOLE-AY MOLE-AY!” It keeps me up at night. 

I bet if I added up all the time I spend plucking my facial hair, I would have extra days every year to do noble works of charity, or read more to my kids, or watch Rock of Love II with Bret Michaels marathons on VH1.  

So yeah, clearly I’ve been obsessing about it. Thinking about getting it sliced off at the dermatologist. Why not? If Sarah Jessica Parker can part with her signature witch mole, why can’t I? Look, it might be a health issue! What if it is precancerous! I don’t think I should take any chances! I’m just wondering, if the mole goes bye-bye, will the hairs still grow out of the scar? Will it leave a scar? What is worse, a hairy witch mole or a scar? So much to ponder! 

But hearing that reading Sunday morning about how important it is to be a person of character, a good wife, and a hard working, caring member of the community snapped me back to reality and helped me to focus on what is really important. I want to be a good person. I want to be a good wife, and mother, and world citizen.  Who cares what I look like?! Beauty fades. What matters most is how pretty I am on the inside! Did people make fun of Mother Theresa’s moles and facial hair? Probably. But those people are burning in the fiery pits of Hell right now. If I am a good person, people will surely look beyond my outward appearance and judge me by my good works, right?! I have nothing to fear but The Lord.

So I went home from church and decided to tackle some piles of clutter, as I promised Oprah and Peter Walsh I would with my “Clean Up Your Messy House Pledge” last week. Then I loaded up some stuff that I wanted to donate to the needy and drove over to the local Goodwill store. I unloaded my boxes and bags and felt pretty good about my contribution to the greater good.  And then, it happened: 

“Would you like a receipt, sir?” the Goodwill volunteer asked me.

Mwah, mwah, mwah. 

Oh.
My.
God.
She just called me “sir.” 

So much for the greater good. So much for beauty being only skin deep. That one syllable shook me to the core. That myopic volunteer bitch. With one slip of the tongue, she totally transported me back to that time when I was ten, standing in line at the county fair with my little brother, when a sweet little old lady asked my mom: “How old are your boys?” Ugh.

Since I’m trying to be a good person, I have to ask myself, “What Would Jesus Do?” Maybe he was called “Ma’am” a time or two with his gorgeous flowing hair and long robes. Did he freak out? Probably not. But he was also the son of God and very forgiving. So instead, I’ll ask, “What Would Oprah Do?” I’m guessing she would not take that shit lying down. I’ve seen enough of her makeover shows to know that she truly believes “being as cute as you can be” is a key ingredient to feeling good… and when you FEEL good, you can do better work in all areas of your life. 

So, quick word of advice gals, don’t forget your lipstick when you are out there doing good works for the greater good, because there is nothing that can take the wind out of your sail like being mistaken for a man. 

And as for the hairy witch mole, well, maybe I’ll look into having it removed, purely for health reasons of course. If you would like to contribute to the cause, please send your donation in care of The Bearded Iris. I’ll deposit it in my coin slot for you, sir. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris