Wonder Years

Hey ya’ll… sorry I’ve been away for so long. I haven’t thrown in the towel, I’ve just been airing it out a little. You’ll thank me later. Nobody wants a musty, stanky towel all up in their biscuits. 

Things around here have been crazier than a soup sandwich lately. Here’s just a sampling of some of the bacon-infused side dishes overlapping on my cafeteria plate the past few weeks: 

• The Gatekeeper and I were called in for a “conference” about Klepto’s behavior with four of her Kindergarten teachers (including Art and P.E.), the Assistant Principal (i.e. “Bad Cop”), and the school counselor. Turned out it was actually an invitation to a “Let’s all complain about how much we can’t stand your evil child” bitch session. Yikes. It was bad ya’ll. I cried afterwards and I wasn’t even riding the cotton pony that day. 
• Klepto (the very same 6 year old girl middle child) was diagnosed (for the second time) with Sensory Processing Disorder. Totally accounts for all her wacky antics over the years. Who knew there was a medical explanation behind sticking ABC gum to your twat? 
• Klepto had a friend over to play who picked at a scabby wart on the back of her knee and bled all over Klepto’s dress up clothes, my sofa, and the carpet. Let me tell you something… nothing puts a damper on a play date like hearing your child scream “MOM! Amber’s BLEEDING!” No, wait… there is one thing worse… it turned out that the bleeding “wart” was actually an infectious disease known affectionately as Molluscum Contagiosa. Nice. Thanks a lot, bitch. And my kids wonder why I don’t schedule more play dates. 
• My perfect first born stole a Lego Star Wars Storm Trooper head from our friends’ house and then lied to me about it. As if my world needed to crumble any further. Is nothing sacred? Poor thing, he’s so damn attention starved. 
• And speaking of petty theft, Klepto stole something from her art class and was ratted out by her peers. Assholes. Yep, got a conference call from the teacher and the assistant principal that day. Ah, good times. I’m pretty sure this poor girl is being profiled. She can do no right at that damn school. 
• Flew to Miami with my husband for a weekend without the kids! Lord have mercy… my knees are still wobbling from all the Mojito inspired hotel sex. That town is crazy, ya’ll. 
• My baby turned two years old a couple days ago. Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset… seems like just yesterday I was holding an ice pack up to my battered hoo hoo, cursing the day I drank too many margaritas and let The Gatekeeper play “just the tip” without a rain hat. Memories. Time sure flies when you’re fighting the axis of evil (aka The PTA and The Ultra Conservative Fucknut Neighbors proudly toting their anti-Obama bumper stickers) and trying to raise a family of non-hydrogenated global citizens. Sigh. No wonder I drink. 

So anyhoo, I’ve clearly been too busy to attend to things like my hygiene, my taxes, and my blog. Sorry about that. Especially for you fellow suburban hostages who rely on my Mommy Smut for your cheap, voyeuristic, daily “Oh Thank God My Life Doesn’t Suck as Much as Iris’s” fix.

Hopefully it won’t be so long between posts, but I can’t make any promises. Shit, if things don’t calm down around here soon, I may be writing my next post from the Betty Ford Center. Do they have Wi-Fi there? 

One more parting thought: don’t look back… you never know what you’ll see. 

Kiss kiss,

Iris

Helicopters-R-Us

Oy vey iz mir, ya’ll… I am turning into one of those mothers. 

You know exactly what I mean… the kind of mothers I frequently write about in less than flattering terms. In my neck of the woods, we call them “Helicopter Moms.” In other words: mothers who hover. They are as common in suburban Atlanta as Loblolly pine pollen spores, and about as appealing too. But now that I’m fixin’ to become the spokesmodel for Helicopter Moms International, I’m thinking that the hovering mother archetype is about to become a whole lot more interesting. 

It’s funny. I used to pride myself on my anti-hovering ways. My children are pretty independent… mainly because they have to be to survive (“Hey, put that homework down… this cocktail isn’t going to refill itself you know.) But suddenly, I’ve been backed into a corner and the Mama Bear in me is coming out with a vengeance. That’s right people… the tide has turned. One of my children is in danger at school. That changes everything. Helicopter Mom? Uh, no. Try an AH-64A Apache Attack Helicopter armed with AGM-114 Missiles & Hydra Rockets.  How do you like me now, muthahfuckah?!

The Apache Military Helicopter... or what it looks like when a foul mouthed, easily provoked, booze whore with anger management issues becomes a "Helicopter Mom."

How did this happen? 

Well, you may recall that my middle child, Klepto, is a bit of a, oh… shall we say… handful? If you’ve spent more than 30 seconds perusing my smutty blog, you are already well acquainted with some of her antics. If you are new to my world, you might not realize that in the past six months alone, this child has: 

• stuck a wad of nasty chewed bubble gum that she found on an arcade floor into her panties
• trashed every pair of shoes she’s owned within minutes of placing them on her feet
• stolen numerous insundry items and lied about them
• started a dog-riot at the animal hospital and then told my vet that I had diarrhea

and there are probably more that I either couldn’t bear to write about or have unconsciously blocked out of my mind because they were so horrid. 

Now listen up, because this is important: it is totally acceptable for ME, her mother, to say these things and label my child “a handful,” but if someone else does that… they better prepare to have their limbs ripped from their body and shoved up their ass. 

In the interest of brevity, I’ll spare you the gory details for now; but let’s just say that Klepto is struggling with some mild behavioral issues at school and I am less than satisfied at the approach the teachers and administration are taking to support her. More details to come, but just prepare to be disgusted with the failings of the public school system. Don’t get me wrong, public school is perfectly fine for some, maybe even for most kids, but it is not working for my Klepto, and I’m definitely not the kind of woman to stand by and idly watch that happen. Look at me… do I look like the type of person who does anything half-ass? 

Thank you. I rest my case. This is just how I eat a piece of fruit on a balmy summer day… imagine how I’ll take on the superintendent of education. 

The silver lining is this: through these trials and tribulations of motherhood, I am becoming a more compassionate person. Instead of continuing to feel so annoyed, and yes, threatened by these mothers in my town who seem on the surface to be so over-involved, I am finally starting to adopt a “live and let live” attitude. We are all just doing the best we can for our kids. Each child is different and who am I to make assumptions or judgements about what those mothers are choosing to do to care for their kids? In fact, I think I might even have to change my tune about homeschooling. Shit, for me to say that, you know that things are really bad for my poor daughter right now. But also, I have a couple of really good friends who have recently embarked on the homeschooling journey. These are phenomenal, well adjusted, balanced women… not your typical Helicopter Moms.  And they made this choice due to the shortcomings that they found to exist in their local public schools and the frustrating untapped potential of their children that they alone are uniquely qualified to recognize and develop  in their own loving homes, at their children’s own pace. I salute these women and I pray that if the time comes when I need to make a similar decision that they will guide me with their wisdom and experience and ample supplies of humor, organic produce, and tequila. 

And so, I’m off to learn the ways of the Helicopter Moms. Look for me in the carpool line, at the cafeteria, and volunteering in the classrooms on a weekly basis. You can’t miss me, I’m the potty-mouthed woman in the cute apron feeding my children organic fresh-baked goods and fighting with “the man” to change the world one fucked up school policy at a time. See you on the side-lines, fuckahs. 

Peace out,

Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

Verbal Diarrhea

No, I haven’t been trapped under something heavy, unfortunately, thanks for asking. My husband does need to lose a few pounds, it’s true, but he’s been steering clear of my sniffling-sneezing-coughing-aching-stuffy head-fever-I need to rest-ass lately. Long story short: I’m sick. (ach-OOOOOOO!)

YesireeBob. One of my spawn brought home a wicked case of some hideous viral infection that feels an awful lot like the flu…ten days ago! Only I know it isn’t the flu because I actually got a flu shot this year and so did the kid who gave me this bug. So, it’s just a cold. A very bad cold. And now it has turned into what I suspect is a double ear infection. I’m heading to the doctor today to confirm this, if I don’t stab myself in the ear with a knitting needle first… the pain is that bad. Geez Louise, now I know why babies with ear infections cry so much. This is bad. And you know what is the worst? Being this sick and having to also take care of a gaggle of kids. I’m starting to think those kooky bigamists in Utah are totally on to something. Communal living sounds like a really smart survival technique at this point. 

But before I go and get all loopy on pain pills and antibiotics, I just had to share what may have been one of the single most embarrassing moments of my life, compliments of my incredibly articulate six year old daughter, Klepto. ”Out of the mouths of babes…” This is an expression that I know all too well. Lordhavemercy, that girl just has a natural born knack for embarrassing her Mama in public. 

So here’s the dealio. I had to take the dog/cuisinart to the vet a couple weeks ago for a nasty rash on his belly. I was worried it might be ringworm since Klepto’s pediatrician said that kids can get this lovely fungus from pets, and as you may recall, darling Klepto had a nasty bout of it last fall.

It was a rainy winter holiday vacation day and I wanted to get Little Miss Ringworm out of the house and share the parenting load with The Gatekeeper, so I brought her with me and the rashy dog. 

I guess I’m a slow learner… and as if I needed further proof of it, I’m a slow learner that I’m a slow learner.  I keep taking this child out into the world with me thinking it will be nice mother-daughter time together and that we will strengthen our bond and resemble a Kodak commercial as we walk hand-in-hand, smiling with glee everywhere we go. But that never happens. Never. When she and I are out and about, I usually spend our entire time together doing one or more of the following things:

a.) whispering “stop it.” 

b.) hissing “Stop It.”

c.) shouting “STOP IT!”

d.) apologizing to others for her behavior and/or my shouting.

Well, this little errand was no different. 

I knew it would be difficult for me to control our very strong and disobedient black lab AND also actively supervise my very curious and impulsive child, so I laid the groundwork before we even got out of the car. I told her I needed her to be on her best behavior and help mommy with the dog. “No running. No shouting. No hiding. No touching things. Just stick with Mommy and we’ll go get a treat when we’re done if you do a good job, ok?” “OK Mommy!” she enthusiastically agreed. 

Yeah. Right.

The nano-second we got through the front door of the vet’s office, Klepto made eye-lock with and promptly raced over to a box of dog toys that were for sale near the pet food and bath products. It was like her spider-senses told her “Ooooh, contraband – 8 o’clock. Abort mission! Abort mission! MUST. RUN. AND. TOUCH.” I’m not exaggerating when I say I hadn’t yet crossed the threshold of the entry door when every person and animal in the building was assaulted by an indescribable cacophony: a deafening chorus of squeaking rubber chickens, conducted by none other than my darling daughter, who was grabbing two and three at a time in each hand and squeezing them repeatedly in various rhythms.   

Naturally, since the rubber chickens were designed to be dog toys, every canine in the waiting room (and beyond) started to go berserk. My dog took off running toward the noise, practically dismembering my right arm and flying me behind him like a 5′7″ kite. I slammed on the breaks, growled “NO” in my best Cesar Milan pack leader voice, and yanked his choke chain with all the strength I could muster while simultaneously commanding Klepto to “Drop the chickens and have a seat, please.” Honestly, with kids and dogs like this, it is no wonder I bark things like “DROP IT!” to the kids and engage in baby talk with the dog. Frankly, it is a miracle I can form sentences at all anymore, let alone in multiple languages like dog and baby. 

I guess the receptionist is trained to recognize which kinds of dogs (and kids) can handle waiting in the reception area and which ones need to be separated from the pack, because we were immediately ushered into one of the exam rooms. I’d like to call it “Rock Star Treatment,” but in reality, it was more like solitary confinement… a punishment, not a reward. Either way, I was happy to be able to sit down and rub my shoulder while Klepto and Devil Dog went about exploring every nook and cranny of the 8×8 cell exam room. 

Naturally I was forced to discuss the rules with Klepto (again), but this time I had to specify about not touching the vet tools and exploring the contents of the trash bin. Ewwww.  ”Honey, there could be very dirty things in there… dangerous things that could make you sick. We never never never reach into trash cans. Especially in a doctor’s office. Gross. Double gross. Got it?” “Got it!” I’m guessing that this is where a more competent mother would pull something fabulous out of her purse like some sugarless gum or finger puppets or a stack of origami paper and a book about how to fold origami doll house furniture, but alas, I couldn’t even find my ringing cell phone in the feedsack I call a handbag (and note to self… change ring tone from “Superfreak” to a more innocuous ring.) Perhaps this would have been a good time to do something like tell a story or sing a song together or play a game of I-Spy… but I was too stressed out from the rubber chicken melee to regroup. So I sat there. Just waiting and hoping I could think of something positive to praise Klepto for rather than have to tell her “no” or correct her one more fucking time that hour. 

Fortunately, less than a minute later, a very handsome vet-tech walked in the door. I’m going to guess he was in his mid-twenties. He was tall, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. He smiled and said hello… and I noticed that he had dimples in both cheeks… ugh, my weakness. Then he knelt down in front of me to pet the dog and we were face to face. He smiled again and we locked eyes. Wow. He was adorable. I’m a typical frumpy housewife and mother of three, so I don’t get this kind of attention very often. In fact, I’ve recently been called “Sir” on more than one occasion by various store employees… so hear me when I tell you that having a gorgeous young dimple-cheeked thing flash me a courtesy smile was enough to make me want to do a little jig… or perhaps a full-fledged lap dance. 

A minute or so passed as the vet tech hypnotized my devil dog (and me) with his attention. I was a little jealous, actually, of the fervent belly rubbing the dog was getting. Lucky dog. Klepto broke the spell though when she loudly announced “LOOK! The dog’s PENIS is red!!!  It looks like a cherry popsicle!” Gulp. The vet tech and I both laughed nervously and looked away from each other, and I had to quietly explain to Klepto in front of this cute man that “that’s just what happens to boy dogs when they are happy. Just ignore it. And NO… don’t touch it, please. That is the dog’s ‘privates.’ No touching.” Nice. But that is not even the worst part. 

The vet tech started examining the rash on the dog’s belly and asked, “Any vomiting or diarrhea?” 

To which Klepto enthusiastically replied: “YES, both my Mom and my baby brother have diarrhea today.” 

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God. 

I honestly don’t remember what happened after that. I think I may have passed out. The last thing I remember was the look on the guy’s face. It was something along the lines of what a face might look like after suddenly smelling a rotten egg or some week-old road kill on a hot day. Not a good face. The magic was gone. 

The vet tech audibly cleared his throat and left the room with the dog to update his shots and I was handed a bottle of antibacterial spray that I have to put on the dog’s belly a few times a day. Turns out, it isn’t ringworm… just a rash, possibly allergies. 

So that was our little errand. Just another banner motherhood moment! Good life lesson there though… I guess I should probably not be discussing my bowels with my children anymore. Hey, it could have been so much worse. At least she didn’t say: “My Mommy had a #6 on the Bristol Stool Scale. It was double gross,” and then break into the Diarrhea-Boom-Boom Song. That would have taken the cake. Kids. Dogs. Diarrhea. Like the Molotov Cocktail of parenting… probably best not to combine those ingredients… especially in public.  

Well I’m off to overmedicate. Wish me luck. Until we meet again,

-Iris

 

Mommy is the Root of All Evil

Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt, and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct, and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits yet again in the second of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister-post. 

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One time I admitted to the women in my babysitting co-op that I let my kids watch SpongeBob SquarePants. Oh, the horror on their faces! You would have thought I said that I let my kids watch snuff films and porn. (Which I hardly ever do… anymore.) 

So I refilled my wine glass and attempted to defend myself. I’m not a huge fan of cat fights or confrontation in general, so I probably should have just kept my mouth shut… but I didn’t. It was not pretty. 

They unanimously rallied that SpongeBob (and to some, the Nickelodeon channel in general) teaches bad values. “There are bad words like ’shut up’ and ‘idiot’ on that show!” they tutted.

“Well, same with every damn Disney movie!” I argued. “At least there is a strong female supporting character on SpongeBob… you know, Sandy?! The flying squirrel who is a deep sea scientist and martial arts expert? Sha! . . . and another thing, Disney Princesses are HORRIBLE role models for girls! I hate them. Hate them all.” 

“Focus Iris. We’re not talking about Disney. SpongeBob is violent!” they needled.

“Have you seen BOLT yet? The opening sequence has exploding helicopters and a chase scene that makes me want to put a nitroglycerin tablet under my tongue.”

“[We] just don’t like how the characters treat each other and talk to each other on that show. It is disgraceful!”

“Have you even watched it? SpongeBob is the single most optimistic, loyal, and moral friend, neighbor, and employee on TV right now. He is a beacon of light and hope! And the show is hilarious. My kids get it. We laugh a lot when we watch that show and I will actually watch it with them, as opposed to Barney or Dora the Explorer which make me want to poke my eyes out and stomp on them.” Oh shit… I’m crossing the line. I’m like a Pit Bull with lipstick now… only I can’t see Russia from my house, probably because my windows are so dirty. 

“Fine. Suit yourself. But please don’t let my kids watch it when (if ever again, doubtful, but if) they are at your house.” 

“Fine.” (Gulp, gulp, gulp, breathe, think of something witty to retort, refill, dramatic pause for effect, and…) “Then don’t teach my daughter that her VAGINA is called a ‘down-there’ when she is at YOUR house. Deal.” So there! Pththththththththth!

Ugh. 

Why do we do it to each other? Why must we judge each others’ parenting like this? Is it because we need to feel competent or superior to someone else in order to feel better about our own work as parents? Or is it just human nature to compare and judge? I honestly know of no other role in which people feel so entitled to act so “holier than thou.” It is an epidemic among mothers in my circle.  

I don’t have the answer, but I know I’m equally guilty of being judged by my neighbors and friends as I am of judging them in return. We’re all still friends, but don’t kid yourself, there is judging and finger pointing going on here. 

The SpongeBob thing is just one of many examples of ways that my parenting style differs from some of my friends’ parenting. More often than not, I seem to be the one who is doing it “wrong.” I am not a model parent. I think my kids thrive in spite of me, not because of me. But I try. I get out of bed everyday and I try. I fail a lot… if you read this blog often, you know that already. But I also laugh a lot and I think the laughter is good for the kiddies… at least it compensates for the chaos. I’m not structured, I don’t provide routines or systems or much consistency, but I’m good at first aid, bodily fluid cleanup, celebrity impressions, and loving my babies unconditionally with all my heart and soul.  

I recently spent a lovely evening at a friend’s house with my kids. While the adults were gabbing away at the table, my 6 year old daughter and their 7 year old son came running to us with some kind of monumental problem. The boy was clearly frustrated and felt that he was the recipient of a grave injustice, which is his achilles heel, and he very begrudgingly started to cry. It was heartbreaking to watch his face struggle with trying to keep it together. My daughter, “Klepto,” is the kind of kid who, I hate to say it, is frequently the reason why other kids in her vicinity cry. We have a pattern and I’m not proud of it, but when someone around her bursts into tears, I instinctively ask her: “What did you do?” Wait – don’t judge yet. There is a history there. She is a very passionate, physical child and she has a well established history of age-appropriate violence… probably from watching all that SpongeBob.

Well, there we were, guests in my friends’ home, and me not wanting to take the lead in resolving or helping the kids to resolve the issue. Plus, my friend is one of the best parents I know and I wanted to see what she would do and learn from her. So I sat there in silence while she suggested that Klepto and Carson go sit down with “The Peace Rock” and talk. 

WHAT? “The Peace Rock?” Are you fucking kidding me? Dude. Why not get out “The Peace Pistol” or “The Peace Nunchucks,” I teased my friends. I was very skeptical. They know my daughter; they know she can be somewhat explosive, impulsive, and physical. They are smart people and amazing parents. But what works for their kids is totally not going to work for mine. Come on… look at us… we watch butt-loads of TV and eat trans fats by the kilo. So, I’m sitting there, biting my tongue, thinking, “OK, your house, your rules. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And my friend’s husband left the room to facilitate The Peace Rock protocol while I sat there listening for screams and imagining how the court case would go when they sue me for damages. 

Long story short, The Peace Rock totally worked. I was SHOCKED… not about the success of their method, but about it working with my daughter who I have clearly labeled and underestimated. The Peace Rock is a great idea. It teaches listening skills and respect and conflict resolution. But I’m guessing that the first time a kid tries this move on the playground, they are going to get their ass kicked and their head dented by a rock. I think it worked the other night because there was a loving adult right there facilitating it. That probably wouldn’t happen in my house. I would yell across the yard, “Klepto, quit crying, get The Peace Rock, and work it out with your brothers!” while I did a diaper change, stirred the slop, chased down the dog who was running with the remote control in his mouth, and answered the phone to discover that the Assistant Principal would like to schedule a meeting with me, again, to discuss Klepto’s behavior on the playground today involving, you guessed it, a rock. I know myself. I could never pull this off. But kudos to my friends who do. Maybe I could try The Peace Pillow… no, smothering risk. The Peace Sock? Hmmm, maybe. Oh who am I kidding? I am lazy. I’m just gonna keep using the The Peace Earplugs…a.k.a. Ignore-It-Until-The-Whining-Stops-or-Someone-Is-Bleeding. 

I have a sneaking suspicion that anyone who knows me blames me for Klepto’s battles with socially inappropriate behavior… after all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Some probably point their fingers and whisper things like “I wonder where she gets it!” and “Well, you know they watch SpongeBob and eat partially hydrogenated oils!” I’m pretty sure about this because I do the same thing. I judge my friend Tammy for letting her 9 year old son watch Drake and Josh, and I ask her not to let my son watch it when he is there. We still love each other more than our luggage, but we don’t always approve of each other’s parenting or Vulva Candy decorating choices. I judge my friend Carol for letting her toddler drink Diet Coke. And I’m gonna bet that my Peace Rock loving friends shake their heads in pity at my obvious lack of parenting tools. See that? There is a continuum. Like a spectrum of parenting evils… trans fats are bad, but at least I don’t give my kids aspartame! I yell at my kids, often in fact, but at least I don’t beat them with a belt or make them kneel on rice in the corner. See the reasoning? We all do it… we all compare and justify. If you don’t, you are either Jesus Christ or a fucking liar.  

It is the toughest, most important job there is, but one thing I know for sure about parenting: right, wrong, or somewhere in between, we are all just doing the best we can. The bottom line is that we all love our children and we all feel terrible when we make mistakes. When I’m not busy blaming my parents, I like to fault technology for the crazy state of the world today. We are all so inundated with information about the right and best and most *whatever* ways to do everything from feed, to discipline, to potty train our kids, that we must instinctively rely on needing to feel superior at something as a survival technique… a way to keep doing it day after day and not feel like an overwhelmed failure so much of the time. Or, ahem, maybe that’s just me. I just wish we could all be better at supporting, nurturing, and educating each other instead of being so quick to compare and judge. It’s something I’d like to work on. Join me, won’t you?

By the way… my daughter did tell me to “shut [my] half-wit pie hole” once — just once. She was four and it was out of context, but as soon as I picked my jaw off the ground, stopped trying to stifle my simultaneous urges to giggle and throttle her, and was able to form a sentence, I demanded: “WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT?” “Squidward said it to SpongeBob,” she spat. “Hmmm,” said I. So we watch it together now and talk about how inappropriate Squidward can be at times and strategize about things he could do to be a better friend. Not all the time. Just sometimes. But clearly it is making a difference… Carson’s head is not dented by “The Peace Rock,” and I have some good friends who love me and my daughter in spite of ourselves.

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.