I happened to glance at the clock the other stormy day before the usual household bedlam broke loose. I distinctly remember seeing 12:00 p.m. sharp. Lil’ P. (son, 15 months) and Lil’ K. (daughter, 4 years) wanted to go outside despite the rain. Correction—I NEEDED to take them outside. Lil’ K. was chasing Lil’ P. around the house with her dragon sword. Lil’ P. had picked up one of Mr. Jenn’s walking sticks and poked it at her, challenging her to a duel. DELIGHTFUL!
- 1. I removed both “swords.” Screaming ensued from both parties.
2. Lil’ K. threw a toy and stomped her foot, so she had to go to time out. While I deposited her behind the baby gate in the “Do Better” area on the stairs, Lil’ P. amused himself by climbing the TV stand.
3. Lil’ P. fell off said TV stand. More screaming ensued.
4. The phone rang. I had dropped it beside the “Do Better” area earlier, so Lil’ K. opted to answer it.
“Mommy is mean and put me in time-out, Daddy. Can’t you do something about this?” she asked the phone. “Daddy wants to talk to you!” she called. She shoved the baby gate over to hand the phone to me.
Lil’ P. screamed louder, and I was certain he had some sort of head injury. Panic.
5. “Why’s everyone screaming?” Mr. Jenn asked. “What’s going on around there?”
I’ve always tried to keep drama away from Mr. Jenn when he’s out working as a law enforcement officer. I want him to stay focused and safe.
“Oh, the usual,” I said, nonchalantly. “Lil’ K. got mouthy, and Lil’ P. is mad ‘cause I wouldn’t let him climb the TV. Everything is under control.”
By this time, Lil’ P. had stopped screaming and was unloading the diaper bag I’d left by the back door. Mr. Jenn seemed satisfied and hung up, just as Lil’ P. gathered all the diapers and threw them across the kitchen.
6. “Mama!!!!!!” screamed Lil’ K. “Mamamaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Don’t forget me! Can’t you let me up now? I’ll be good, I promise!”
Lil’ K. and I discussed the error of her ways. By the time I got back, Lil’ P. had discovered the diaper rash cream. There appeared to be a little bit around his mouth, but I wasn’t sure if he’d really eaten any. More panic.
7. I called Poison Control. I pried open Lil’ P.’s mouth to see if he had any diaper rash cream in his teeth. He didn’t seem to. I could tell the Poison Control person was trying not to laugh. Bastard.
8. I suddenly remembered that Lil’ P. probably had a concussion from falling off the TV stand. I reached for him to check his pupils. He had disappeared, and I realize that I’d forgotten to put the gate back on the stairs. I skidded around the corner and found him on the third step. He turned to wave at me and rolled down. I caught him before he hit the floor. I swore vehemently.
“Don’t say that, Mama,” corrected Lil’ K.
“Dit! Dit! Dit!” laughed Lil’ P. At least he could speak, and his pupils were the same size.
9. Suddenly, Lil’ P. stopped and began to strain. His face turned red, and a smell engulfed us.
“I’ve got to poop, too!” cried Lil’ K., heading for the bathroom.
Dammit. Naturally, they both finished their respective constitutionals at the same time. Lil’ K. was relatively easy to help. WWE or WWF or WTF or whatever they call wrestling these days hasn’t got crap on Lil’ P. He’d probably get crap on them. This particular diaper changing calamity was Pay-Per-View worthy. He flipped himself over and crawled away, but not before I swiped him clean.
10. Lil’ P. stood diaperless in front of the fireplace while Lil’ K. and I looked on.
“Dit!” he cried. “Dit! Dit! Dit!”
He suddenly looked down at himself in surprise, filled with wonder at his maleness and the stream of water coming from it.
“EWWWWWWW! He’s peeing, Mama, look, he’s PEEEEEEEEEIIIIING! EWWWWW!” Lil’ K. helpfully informed me.
I put my head in my hand. Lil’ P. immediately leaped in the middle of the puddle, delighted by the splatter. Suddenly, he slipped and fell in it. I looked at the clock. It was 1:00 and thundering. WTF???