The only thing which has gotten me through this day, beside
mass consumption of wine, is that fact that it’s March and lord help me, there
won’t be another snow day until 2016. I
wrongly thought this morning, at 6 am when the Commander awoke eager and ready
to tackle his new suburban snow field, that a snow day in the suburbs with a 5
year old and a two year old, would be a million times better than last year
when we were in the city with a 4 year old and a 15 month old. I am a fucking moron.
“Look outside, mommy! Look!
Can we go build an igloo now?” the Commander begs already trying to
locate his snow pants. The sun barely
reaching above the snow covered trees and my coffee yet to brew, I
optimistically suggested waiting until his brother woke up --- naturally,
without the poking and prodding that Commander was offering. “I don’t want to wait. I can go out alone. I don’t need you. You sunk.
I am going outside.” Managing to convince the Commander that the snow
wasn’t ready, we calmly watched TV until TIT screamed bloody murder from his crib. Then all bets were off, and Snowmageddeon began.
I defray tackling the winter wonderland until nearly 11am by offering a variety of child-friendly activities. Inevitably, they are all a colossal failure which should have given me pause and provide a harbinger for how the rest of my day would go. Now taking kids out to play in the snow requires more prep
work than a surgeon getting ready to do open heart surgery. First, I begin with the less hostile
child. The Commander agreeably puts on two
shirts and his snow pants while I chase the TIT through the house. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” the Commander wails
from the backdoor. “Hurry!!” In his haste to get outside into the icy
tundra, he fails to put on socks and just tosses his snow boots on. “You need your socks,” I scream as I hold the
TIT down still trying to wrestle off his diaper. Now TIT is a different story. He wants no part of winter wear and is
content to go outside in a diaper and his Batman pajama shirt. Undeterred by
the howling wind when the door opens, the TIT is simultaneously crying from the
cold but barreling forward to get outside.
I manage to get 87 layers of clothing on him; snow pants, socks, a
thermal shirt. But the gloves, that’s a
whole different story. I try the mittens
first but he is adamantly against them.
I then try gloves, but I might as well be rubbing acid in an open
gapping wound, because TIT will have none of it. At this point the Commander has aggregated a
bountiful array of snow toys including my old hockey stick, a beach shovel and some
buckets. While I am trying to figure out
which of these items is ok to bring outside, TIT has removed his jacket
because, “Don’t want jacket,” makes a ton of sense to a stubborn 2 year
old.
So the Commander and his daddy are working on building the
igloo but TIT just stands, frozen, gazing into the white sea of snow shaking
and gloveless. I thought logic would prevail and once TIT touched the icy snow
he’d realize that while the gloves aren’t great, they are the best option. Fuck me for assuming common sense was in the
arsenal of a toddler, because TIT continues to dig holes with his bare hands
crying as his tiny little fingers turn red.
I take the obligatory winter pictures of boys in their backyard and
think it makes more sense to bring TIT inside than allow him to get frost bite
and have no way to get to the hospital because our driveway has yet to be
plowed. I scoop him up and bring him
back inside and start the laborious process of removing the 87 layers of winter
wear. I mean, why would anyone, toddler
or adult, want to stay outside in freezing weather for no good reason. But “NO. GOOD. REASON.” is what drives this child.
Clawing at the door, naked, he is trying to get back outside to his
brother and his dad. So I make the executive mother decision that outside time
is over and it’s lunchtime and make the Commander forfeit his igloo fort and
come inside. It’s not fair, but it’s the
only thing, which will stop the crying, and that is all I care about.
Protesting, the Commander slams his shovel into his techno-color igloo and
begrudgingly comes inside.
Next on tap: popcorn, hot chocolate and a movie! What’s
better on a snow day? Silly, silly
me. My terrorists have a different idea
than the Norman Rockwell-esque picture perfect suburban snow day. They want no part of this shit. “I want hot chocolate but I want it cold,”
Commander bellows as he strips naked from his snow gear. “You mean you want chocolate milk?” But
that’s not what the Commander wants. He is specific. He wants 2 parts milk, one part coco mix, heated
for 39 seconds on high in his personalized Elmo cup. He wants 10 mini marshmallows. Not 7.
This kid won’t do math a day in his life at school but he knows exactly how
many fucking marshmallows are in his cup and he knows how many more he needs to
get to ten. Meanwhile TIT, still with
glowing red hands, in spite has started to dump every basket of toys. I stay calm. I pour wine. It’s noon. It’s
five in London. We are all good here.
Now my two are a rare breed.
Part little boy, part tiger-blood superhuman creatures, they are the
only two children who DO NOT want to watch TV or a movie or enjoy playing with
their variety of electronic devices that don’t require intense supervision or
for me to wield a lightsaber and slap the shit out of them. The Commander offers to watch Star Wars as
the movie choice, but I know better. I know that he doesn’t watch this movie;
he acts it out. Not being in the mood to
dress in a Darth Maul mask and be chased, I give them two other options. Penguins
of something or other and Frozen. Since the Commander would rather have his
eyes gouged out by Elsa than watch that movie, I knew the winner. And for a few minutes, my two semi-naked
little boys completed my vision of picture perfect suburbia. They sat cuddled under a blanket, each with a
bowl of popcorn calmly watching the plight of some baby penguin drifting astray
on an iceberg. I knew better than to
high-five myself yet. I was cautiously
optimistic that this euphoria could last the whole 96 minutes of the movie and
I could just sit. Sit quietly. But just like that, for NO GOOD REASON, the TIT
takes his bowl of popcorn and tosses it on his brother.
The Commander screams, “Hey! Make him stop. Mommy, make him
stop.” Before I even have a chance to intervene, TIT then takes the Commander’s
bowl of popcorn and throws that too.
“What the (I Stop myself before the FUCK) happened over here?” TIT
points to the Commander and says, “Max did it. Max did it.” I saw the whole
thing go down and I know the little hellion is lying. I am amazed that at 2 this kid has lying down
to an art he has mastered. He has the finger point, the look of surprise and
disgust, as he throws his brother under the bus. “He did not do this. Don’t lie to me,” I
say. He back peddles. He thinks for a minute. “Daddy did it.”
I pour some more wine and add the movie to the list of
“Tried and Failed” for the day. Then it
dawns on me. The reason we moved to the
suburbs. The whole thing which drove us
from the city out to this sleepy suburban hollow. It was in front of me the whole time. THE BASEMENT!!
Yes, that’s it. That is what will save me for the next 8
hours. Now before we moved into this
house a month ago, I spent hours pondering how to make this area of the house
the most delicious, child-friendly utopia imaginable. I mean Chuck E Cheese meets Disney fucking
World. I had our contractor build a rock
wall with a repel rope. I put in a
swing, a basketball hoop, a trampoline and added every toy we ever amassed. No
kid in their right mind would ever want to play upstairs where there are
unstained rugs and wedding crystal.
I lug down a bottle
of wine and a variety of snacks. I forgo
the healthy options; I have no fight left in me. I need what I have to get me
to bedtime. I decide, “Sure” and “Yes”
are the words I will utter to all their requests for the rest of the day.
“Sure you want an ice
pop? Why not. Have two!”
“Soda! A-OK!! You got it.”
“Let’s have the whole box of cookies! Why stop now!”
“Let mommy open the Shiraz and then you can eat those
chemical laden cheese balls from Costco!”
I set up an obstacle course downstairs. I call it the “Kiddie Olympics” and I promise
presents to the winner. My goal: to tire
the fuckers out. The Commander is eating
this shit up. He’s climbing the rock
wall, making three baskets in a row, jumping on one leg and then the
other. He runs up the stairs and down
and up and down. He’s adding numbers,
reading words and I contemplate for a few minutes becoming a kindergarten
teacher. I don’t stop barking commands until he breaks a sweat. TIT on the other hand, has no interest in
participating in my games. He finds his
favorite toy: electrical cords.
This kid has cars and a Cozy Coupe and Leap Frogs, but his
favorite things to play with are wires.
He’s not particular. He likes iPhone
wires. He likes extension cords. He
likes lamp wires. He likes computer cords.
He likes to carry them around and when he gets really ballsy he likes to
try and plug them into outlets. For NO
GOOD REASON. I offer alternatives, but
there is nothing better than a brand new extension cord. That shit is
gold. Screw the iPad; Mommy got a brand
new shiny wire. I have to divert my
attention from the Olympic games to address TIT’s impending electrocution. And he is pissed when I take the wire and try
and put it high up on a shelf. It sends
him into an electric frenzy of punching and kicking and screaming. In the process of trying to control TIT, the
Commander loses focus and interest in the Olympics and heads up stairs to “go
swimming” in our bathtub.
My husband, snowed in as well, but “working from home” has
managed to lock himself away in an upstairs office for most of the mayhem. I am
pretty sure “Working from home” in part meant reading the WSJ and hiding from
his offspring. But now the Commander
wants to his goggles and the bubble bath and go swimming with his brother and
daddy. I am more than happy to allow
this to occur and throw all boys in a bath before I go and locate another
bottle of Pinotage. When I return to the
bathroom, to my new beautiful bathroom with my new beautiful tub where I am
sure the builder of the house envisioned as a relaxing oasis, I find the
remnants of a tsunami. Bubbles and suds
overflowing everywhere running down the side of the tub and across the bathroom
floor.
It’s 4:30. I am now two melatonin gummies and four hours
away from bedtime. I have unleashed every mothering activity from my depleted
arsenal short of baking cookies. I think
momentarily about tossing that in there.
And then I look at the bathroom floor and the mess. And I think about
the basement and the array of toys scattered around and the crushed goldfish
and spilled hot chocolate. And then I
think about the kitchen and the family room and the popcorn covered rug that
has now been jumped on and crushed into the cushions of the sofa. I think about
the dishwasher full of clean dishes that need to be put away and the sink full
of dirty dishes which need to be loaded. And I surrender.
I quit.
Uncle.
I give up.
They win!
Winter, I am your bitch.