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.

The Elf on the Shelf… a.k.a., aww HELL to the NO.

Lordhavemercy… what’ll they think of next. First the Webkinz. Then the Pokémon. Now there is a new THING that my children are DYING to get their grubby little mitts on. “Everyone has one already, Mom!!” Oh, my poor babies are so dang deprived, don’t you know. 

This latest craze that I am puttin’ the big kibosh on is called “The Elf on the Shelf.” Looks like this:

If you’re reading this over your Crackberry or drank too much tonight and can’t see the picture very clearly, I’ll describe it for you: it is a very cheap looking, semi-creepy, Made-in-China, Christmasy Elf doll (most likely lead-based, highly flammable, and definitely not from sustainable materials). It’s packaged in a big ol’ “keepsake” box with a cheesy looking hardcover book. No big whoop. Honest to Pete. So why are the children threatening to throw themselves in front of a bus if they don’t get one? Well, here’s how one reviewer describes it:

The Elf on the Shelf is a great family Christmas Tradition in a box!  It is based on a tradition that Carol Aebersold began with her family in the 1970’s, and includes a children’s book that explains that Santa knows who is naughty or nice because he sends a “scout elf” to every home.  During the Holiday Season, the Elf watches the children during the day and reports back to Santa each night.  When your kids wake up the next morning, the Elf has returned from the North Pole and can be found hiding in a different location, making it into a game that both you and your kids will love!

The Elf on the Shelf usually makes his debut at the beginning of the Holidays (we plan to start on Thanksgiving this year) and by the second or third day, your kids will be tearing out of their rooms to see where the Elf is hiding that morning!  Plus, I just have to mention the fact that it really helps with behavior for kids during this really awesome yet really crazy time of the year!  Each Tradition-in-a-Box™ comes with its very own scout elf, a hardbound, cleverly rhymed children’s book and a keepsake box for easy storage.

PS — need a little push to get into the Holiday Spirit?  Visit the Elf on the Shelf Website — it is completely interactive and a blast to visit — you can even see the North pole!

Wow. I suck. I wonder if she’d adopt my children and give them a shot at a normal life. She sounds like such a good Mom, doesn’t she? Such enthusiasm! Here it is, December 3rd, and I don’t even have a shopping list STARTED yet, not even in my cluttered mind. My front stoop is still adorned with a Halloween doormat and I’ve got a dirty Thanksgiving table cloth on my dining room table, under my laptop and a sky-high pile of bills and catalogs, even as I type this. 

Look. I just calls it like I sees it. This is a racket. This Elf on the Shelf thing is nothing but crazy crazy bullshit for overburdened, guilt-ridden parents who are desperately trying to create traditions for their kids to help them make sense of this topsy-turvy over-commercialized world. But people – don’t you see? You are making more work for yourselves! Hellooooo? As if we need one more task plunked onto our To-Do Lists… particularly at this time of year when their are so many cookies to bake and trees to trim and gifts to buy and presents to wrap. Where is my Xanax, anyway? 

And to prove my point, lo and behold, I just received an email from one of my local homegirls, asking: “Do you have Elves?…they are all the buzz and another fucking thing for us to do in December… Tyler told Zach that he could catch one with a lolly pop trap and he wants one so bad that him and his brother both set traps tonight!!!  guess I gotta get a damn elf!!!”  Oy. See that? The pressure. Holy shit – the migraine inducing pressure. This poor Mama/Sistah/Friend of mine is totally up against the wall. What is going to happen when those little boys of hers wake up and there is no Elf in their lollipop trap? Shoot… what if there is a big old stinky dead hermit crab in that lollipop trap? Or a rat? Damn. There is no way in fucking H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks that I would put out a sugary-food-based-trap in my home… on purpose. Lord knows what I’d be looking at eye to eye the next morning. But do you see where I’m going with this? The kids. They talk. They talk at school about who’s Elf is the most mischievous and adventurous. Then the kids come home and tell their Moms who’s Elf did what the night before and the Moms totally get it. It’s just another feather in the Über-Mom cap. But ladies, make no mistake about it, we totally get who is overcompensating for something dark and sinister by having the most rambunctious Elf in the whole darn subdivision. It may look to the innocent children like there is two tons of fun to be had in your home with your Elf, but don’t kid yourselves, we all know what you’re hiding. We. All. Know. 

"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And gosh-darn-it, people like me."

I asked some of the Über-Moms in my hood about this phenomenon a while back… for research, and yes, because my oldest started hitting me up for an Elf about a year ago. You would not even BELIEVE the things these Desperate Housewives stay up at night doing… with the Elves I mean. One mom unrolled all the toilet paper in her house and left it in huge piles all over each bathroom. Uh, excuse me, NO. Uh-uh. First off, I have a toddler. If I want to see unrolled piles of TP, I can just leave the bathroom doors open. I do not need to spend $29.99 on some ugly toxic doll and then stay up late making my own messes to clean up the next day. That is just retarded, people. And not very hygienic, green, or time-wise. 

I’ve heard of other mothers who purposefully make a bunch of cookie crumbs and put the Elf near the cookie jar before they go to bed. Well, tee-hee-hee! Isn’t that a HOOT! Wouldn’t that just tickle your funny bone to come downstairs for your first cup of joe and see a swarm of ants and/or cockroaches feasting on all those crumbs with that mischievous Elf?! Nothing says Christmas like a cluster of disease carrying vermin on your granite. Didn’t we cover this already with the whole lollipop trap crap? It’s crazy talk, I tells ya. 

"Well, well, well! What do we have here?"

 

Or, how about this? Some Moms sprinkle fake snow or glitter all around their homes in a trail-like formation! Then the kids track down the Elf the next day by following the glittery fake snow trail all around their otherwise immaculate open floor plan! Oh yes please! Gimme some of that! Shoot, I don’t sweep or vacuum enough as it is. Last thing I need to do is intentionally ADD to the funk on my floors. Actually, in my home, the Elf would certainly get lost in a dog-hair-tumbleweed and we’d never see him again. Ever. Or with our luck, the devil-dog would find him first, eat him, and poop out his mangled head for the kids to find in the yard one day, scarring them for life. No thanks. 

And what’s up with the hiding of the elf every night and the kids having to find it in the morning? Again. Toddler in the hizouse. I can’t find the phone, the remote, my keys, various sippy-cups, and my ginzu knife set any given day of the week thanks to my sweet little Bucket Head’s predisposition for stealing and stashing loot. I certainly am not about to hide something on purpose. Highly doubt if I’d remember to do it anyway. Good Lord, my middle baby lost her first tooth the other night and I totally almost forgot to do the deed. My first born saw that coming though, because apparently he wrote his own little Tooth Fairy note for my daughter and put two of his own quarters under her pillow just in case. He’s only 9. Already overcompensating for his slacker Mama. Good kid. 

Other moms use the Elf as a bargaining tool. “The Elf is always watching!” (Ewwww!) “Clean your rooms or the Elf will tell Santa and you’ll get coal in your stocking!” Oh come on now. Really? This just burns my biscuits, ya’ll. It’s like those reading programs at school where the kids have to read for a certain number of hours and they win a prize like a ticket to a hockey game or Six Flags, but really all the record keeping falls on the parents. Look, in my house, the prize for reading is: READING. Yep, reading IS its own reward. I’m not gonna bribe my kids with an external motivator to do something that I expect them to do and get satisfaction from anyway. Again. Dumb. My kids will clean their rooms because they know if they do they will get the best prize of all: the opportunity to continue living here. Geez m’knees… this is what is wrong with kids today. They need to be bribed to do everything! Gimme a break. I don’t need no stinkin’ Elf to get my kids to clean their rooms. Lordhavemercy. I just tell them what my crazed single working mother shouted to me and my brother numerous times: “I swear to GOD… I will call Santa and tell him not to come. Is that what you want? Is it?! ANSWER ME!” Hey, it worked. Santa always came. 

OK, one last story. I saved the best for last. Just asked my good friend Lindsay if she had any good Elf stories for me. She is a professional photographer and blogger extraordinaire, and gets full credit for any decent photo you ever see on this blog. She also is the very reluctant owner of one very lazy, sordid Elf and she was kind enough to photograph him in several compromising positions for this post! Thanks girl! So anyway, she emailed me this little gem: 

the craziest Elf story?

an uber mom I know called me frantic and out of breath

the kids were at AWANA and they were en route home

she said… go into my house

here is the code to the alarm

mess up both my kids rooms

throw their underwear around (I said WTF?  a pervert elf… gross?!)

she was dumping shit out all over the house all for the sake of convincing kids that a made in china piece o’ crap was beamed here directly from santa.

she was so panicky and jittery! 

weird people in this town.

weird people.

Oh, sakes alive. I can just smell the panic in that Über-Mom’s pits. God help her for forgetting to muss up those rooms before church! Good thing Lindsay was on stand-by to save the day or those poor kids would have had the disappointment of a lifetime. 

Look. I know my limits. I can totally see why this could be a very cool thing in the hands of a competent parent. But for me, it would be just one more thing that I would have to do and most likely wouldn’t do very well. I guess “to each his own” is fitting here. If you can do it, great. Sounds like the kids really dig it… just like they dig Scooby Doo, WONKA® Lik-m-aid® Fun Dip™ candy, Ernest movies, and lots of other things for which I have no tolerance. But for the rest of us who feel compelled to “just say no” and focus our energies elsewhere, that’s OK too. We all do the best we can with the drugs we have. 

And me? Well, if I can ever log off this crazy thing and get caught up on the laundry, I intend to keep The Christ in my Christmas and The Elf on the Shelf…of the store. Happy Holidays, ya’ll!

©2008 The Bearded Iris

  

Grab and Go

Ya’ll, I’m busier than a one-legged woman in an ass-kickin’ contest today, what with all the holiday Room Mom requirements, and Thanksgiving cleanup, and the fact that if I don’t grocery shop my family will surely starve to death. 

But it is Tuesday. And you know that when I’m not busy trying to keep my children alive, I like to share practical tips you can use in your own homes to make your lives all that much better than mine.  It’s a little thing I call “Just the Tip Tuesday.” Catchy, don’t you think?

So here’s my tip:

Don’t you just hate when you are trying to leave a place and your kids dig in their heels and say “Hell no – we won’t go!” And meanwhile, your hands are totally full with a diaper bag and a poopy diaper that you need to toss and your cell phone and your purse and a Tupperware container full of the leftovers that your Mother-in-Law insists you take with you? Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. Next time you get some attitude from a stubborn child and don’t feel like investing any more of your precious energy verbally enticing them to get in the damn car already, transfer all your stuff to one arm. Then, without warning, silently walk up behind them, grab the back of their overalls, pick ‘em up, and just start walking. Like so:

 

Now before you call Social Services, I’ll have you know that no toddlers were harmed in this process. First of all, his diaper was probably totally saturated with urine, making it a very fluffy cushion for his goody basket. Secondly, he was so surprised by the maneuver that he said “WHEEEE!” I know, I know, not exactly the negative consequence needed to teach a life lesson. But sometimes a mama’s gotta do what a mama’s gotta do. The point is, this move shuts ‘em up and gets ‘em out. Then, when you get home, you can sit them down for a little “Come to Jesus” talk and let them know that if you ever, I mean EVER, have to physically extricate them from a social situation again, it will be the last party they ever attend. To which they will certainly smile and giggle and say something like “Mommy. More. Kiss.” and totally miss the point and melt your heart all in one fell swoop. 

But still. It’s a good move to try when your last nerve is on the verge of being severed in public. Now this is important… there are several key ingredients to being able to pull this off:

1.) Always dress your toddler in overalls when you are going somewhere that you suspect might be difficult for them to leave peacefully. A t-shirt just won’t cut it. You’ll rip the shirt and/or choke the child. Not OK. Also, these are little humans, not cats, so don’t just grab ‘em by the nape of the neck or someone really will take your children away, and that is never good.  

2.) Have an escape route mapped out. This move works best when you remember where you parked the mini-van and can get there without having to stand in line at a Chuck-E-Cheese security checkpoint apologizing to the other parents. 

3.) Make sure you are in decent physical condition before you attempt this move. Arm strength is important here, but the actual lifting should always be done with your legs. Trust me, nothing says “the party is over” like a toddler with a concussion and a frazzled Mom flat on her pimped-out-pooper with a back spasm from hell. Or so I hear. 

So yeah. Parenting. It’s not for pussies. Give this tip a shot the next time you need an emergency escape plan, and remember, you heard it here first. Giddee-up! 

©2008 The Bearded Iris