So Saturday was a magical day. My lovely husband allowed me to sleep in (although that did not prevent my toddler from climbing up on my bed, leaping atop me, ripping back the covers, and shouting “Mommy! Mommy! Are you SLEEPING!”). My eyes are closed, I’m immobile and unresponsive, and well, I’m in bed. I know you are two, but come on Sherlock, deduce! So, good morning, I’m up. After my gentle awakening, I shuffled to the kitchen where I consumed a beautiful Krispy Creme maple bar (which we never have in our house). The only reason we have a box of Krispy Cremes in our house to start with is that my husband phoned me during his lunch break on Friday with what he told me was an urgent errand that could not wait. He needed me to head all the way out to Krispy Creme to pick up a dozen doughnuts because it was (I kid you not) National Doughnut Day. Oh, the joys of being a stay at home mom. If the puke, poop, and general childcare don’t keep me busy enough, I have national doughnut emergencies to attend to. I however enjoy the occasional Krispy Creme, so I obliged.
So back to Saturday morning:
I enjoy my delicious day after National Doughnut Day maple bar, check my email, play with the kids, and just have a relaxing morning. Everyone is in a great mood and my potty training toddler is on a roll with zero, that’s right zero accidents all morning. He even goes down at nap time without a huge fight, and Liam (our 7 month old) seems to be in a good mood too so we slather him with sunblock, add a giant hat and some baby sunglasses, and when we are finished he resembles a very tiny, pudgy, happy 80-year-old man. We plop him in his exersaucer on the deck and he’s good to go.
So the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and my husband and I settle in to do some yard work. I am not normally a yard work doing type of mama (to give you an idea I do not, to this day, know how in creation one would turn on a lawnmower), but Saturday was going so nicely that I was into it. I mixed chemicals, I pulled weeds, I stepped in dog poop while wearing flip-flops (not intended, and not technically yard work I guess). The point is, I was doing it, and I was having fun. At one point the afternoon took a turn for the worse when my husband and I had a slight disagreement (okay, that’s a lie, it got ugly) about whether we should apply Round-Up to the weeds behind the garage before or after weed whacking them. Speaking of which, the weed whacker is another lawn appliance that I have no idea how to use. Not that I ever will since I am completely unwilling to be within 50 feet of one while it’s on. I literally yelled to my husband from 50 feet away for a solid 5 minutes while he was weed whacking on Saturday before he noticed me. Then he didn’t even want the water I’d just ruined my throat offering to him. So anyway, we settle the Round-Up / weed whacker debate, by agreeing to do it the right way (which was incidentally the way that both I and the manufacturer recommended).
We finish the yard work, and our boys wake from their naps. We delight them by announcing that we are going to the park. (Well we delight Logan al least. Liam just sort of drools, then smiles, so I’m willing to accept that as a sign of delight as well.) So we arrive at the park and our perfect day continues. We’ve never been to this one before so Logan is running around, having a blast, and Liam is chilling in his stroller, decked out in his 80-year-old man sun gear, peacefully chewing on his hat.
Then it happens, we have our first melt down. Logan wants to play in the splash pad, but we don’t have swim trunks for him with us. It was very warm, and not wanting to stomp on the fun, we strike a bargain. If he goes pee pee on the potty, he can play in the water. My logic for this is that we have 2 extra pairs of undies and an extra pair of shorts in the bag because of potty training, so if he pees on the potty now (instead of in his shorts later) we won’t need the extra shorts, so he can get the pair he is wearing wet in the splash pad, and we can change into the dry stuff when he’s done.
So with the joy of splashing at stake, he forces that pee out in the park bathroom, and we remove his shirt and sandals, and he has a blast in the water. So it’s back to our picture perfect day. Afterwards, he soggily drips out to the car where we change him into his dry stuff. Since the kids are doing great, and we are having a magical family day together, and it’s dinner time, we decide to go out. We pick a relatively popular buffet near the park because I want a huge salad, and they are sure to have something Logan wants.
Dinner starts well enough, for oh, about the first 3 minutes. I bring Logan a plate filled with everything he loves; mac and cheese, pickles, a hamburger, peaches, carrots, ect. I figure that this should buy us 20 minutes since he is a major eater. Not even close. He eats most of his mac and cheese in the first 2 minutes then announces that he is ready to go bye-bye. Not so fast mister. Mommy and Daddy would like to take a few bites of their food. So Logan briefly entertains himself (as well as the not quite as amused diners around us) by standing on the bench of the booth and singing the Belly Button song from VeggiTales and Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, very enthusiastically (read: very loudly). We get him to sit down and he demands blackberries. Loudly. Repeatedly. I go to look for some darn berries, and all I can find is a canned berry medley, served on cake. I am desperate so I figure what the heck, and grab him a piece. He enjoys this. He enjoys it all over his hands, face, shirt, pants, legs, and hair. I should mention that he is 2 and a half and usually pretty handy with a fork and spoon, but whatever. He enjoys it, and is mostly quiet (bonus). Until he is done. And then he is loud again, so I do what any responsible, slightly embarrassed parent would do; I run and get him another slice. The quiet doesn’t last as long this time. And I should mention that this whole time the baby has finally had enough of being good-tempered and has decided to fuss so the Husband and I are passing him back and forth the entire meal, taking turns eating one-handed.
So the big event: Logan announces he needs to go pee pee. As parents of a potty training toddler my husband and I snap into red alert crisis mode. I grab the baby out of Matt’s arms, he in turn, turns to grab Logan to carry him to the bathroom because there’s just no time to walk. As he reaches for him, Logan pees. In his pants. On the seat. In the middle of a crowded restaurant. Lovely. Matt runs him to the bathroom with the diaper bag in tow, to clean him up. They return several minutes later. Logan shows up happy, face wiped, hands washed, dry, wearing only his polo, his sandals, and his truck undies. He is happily munching on a cookie.
Right… we used his extra pants for the splash pad. Darn it. At this point I hurriedly tell my husband that I hope he’s done eating because it’s time to go. Of course we are at the furthest table from the door. I march through the restaurant with my pantsless toddler, determined to get to the car (and out of sight as quickly as possible). Logan, however, does not share my shame or my mission. He casually saunters towards the door, stopping to check out what other people are eating, or to roll his fire truck on the ground. We finally arrive at the car (what seems like) 11 hours later.
Safely on the road I turn to my husband. “Oh my God, that was horrible!” I tell him. He replies, “What? I think that with two kids that wasn’t so bad.” Ah, the lowered standards of having multiple children. As I said, it was a magical day.