Displaced From Dat Place

Recently we found out that we had to have some work done on our house due to a leak. Since it was an extensive fix, we had to find some place to stay for the duration of the renovation. Basically, we had to uproot everyone and everything and turn our schedule on its ear and all breathe into brown paper bags so that we don't hyperventilate. (Ok, the last one might only have been me.)

Cue sad, theatrical violin music.

Ok, I'm not THAT bad. I mean, sure, one of my neighbors said she felt terrible for me, knowing how hard this must be on me since I like my routine, but other than that, my coping skills are just fine. (I said they're FINE dammit!) And although my ability to "roll with the punches" has been sorely tested during this ordeal, it has allowed me to learn a few things.

1.) I HATE moving. Or more specifically, disorganized, hasty moving. If I had the proper amount of time to coordinate, plan, pack, make lists of lists, then I'm sure things would have gone completely smoothly and birds would have helped me hang the curtains while the bunnies swept the floors. Alas, there were no birds OR bunnies, just a lot of frantic adults (ok, two frantic adults) trying to move as much stuff before kids got home and ratcheted the chaos level up to clinically insane. I got to put things in boxes just to move them to the rental house five minutes away and take the crap back out of the boxes. Boxes that weren't even labeled. Yes, that's right. Unmarked boxes. Dun dun dun. Yes, all of you with obsessive compulsive tendencies can now shudder and feel my pain.

See? THIS is OCD packing at its finest.

2.) We have a lot of shi.....stuff. Yes, stuff galore. My husband told me to bring only necessities and to pack the other stuff away in the garage. Guess who got to make 45 trips back to the house to get "necessities"? I'm pretty sure that we've been there so many times that the neighbors probably don't even realize we're gone yet. Also, let me point out that it's really nice living where all of your shi....stuff is. You don't need that cake pan until you realize you need it for the Easter dessert you want to make. No, don't bring the filing cabinet, that's stupid. Instead why don't you run back and forth looking for paperwork that you wouldn't have needed if you could put your fingers on it easily. Don't take that for granted people. Seriously. I want you to go to your computer desk, find that doo hickey that holds your pens and paperclips all in one nifty place and say, "I appreciate having you close by."

3. You can't go back. After owning my own house for 10 years, I cannot be a renter. It's too stressful. I walk around just barking at kids to stop. It doesn't even matter what. Ninety nine percent of the time at least one of my children is doing something that they shouldn't be, so just stop. This instant. No you may not race cars on the walls, they aren't our walls. No you may not throw bouncy balls at the walls, they aren't our walls. No you may not do anything but stand there, they're not our legs. Oh, sorry, got carried away there. They are your legs but you cannot kick the doors with them!!! And while we're at it, here are a few other rules: Don't touch! Don't even look. Don't even want to look.

4. You can totally screw up your sleep pattern just by putting your bed in  different spot. If you sleep on your right side and face toward the center of the bed, flipping that is going to confuse your body for awhile. Once your body gets suckered into thinking sleeping on the opposite side is fantastic, you can then pull a fast one and move back to your own home and sleep on the opposite side again. A word of warning: You might need to transition slowly as moving too fast could case your brain to need extensive sessions with a therapist, which will be totally awkward because how would you not eavesdrop on that conversation?

I understand why Calgon needs to take so many people away now. It all makes sense. Except for Roth IRA's. And quesalupas. They still don't make any sense at all.

Vodka: The Calgon of 2016

Dining Out With My Little %$@! (I Mean Sweet Angels)

When you have your first kid, things don't change a lot in the beginning. Sure, there's a miniature pooping machine who's going to dictate your actions for the rest of your life (or at least until they go to college), but other than that, their first year lulls you into a false sense of complacency.

You still get to eat out. You still wear makeup and jeans and shirts that don't double as pajamas. You still think you're going to be able to shower every day, uninterrupted. Ah, that first golden year. That sweet baby who will sit still in your lap or a high chair at a restaurant. The one you get compliments on how well they behave. You may even think, "Gosh, this parenting thing is easy."

And then they turn two. I don't know what happens, but eating at a restaurant usually ends with someone crying. (If it's not the two year old, it's probably his parents.) If there aren't any tears, I guarantee that there's either a temper tantrum, thrown food, or pissed off parents. Sometimes all of the above. And all the while the toddler is channeling his inner Linda Blair until he gets back to the safety of home, where everything has been baby proofed and he can be a little jerk safely while his parents cry in a corner and pray for kindergarten to begin. (Also, I'd like to take this moment to put my rusty math skills into play and mention that if you multiply the dinner by the number of kids and divide it by two frazzled parents, shit's going to get real.)

This is the stage we are currently, ah, enjoying. By enjoying, I mean I would rather have all my fingernails pulled out than eat out in public with my children. Yes, CHILDREN, plural. Because as much as they would like to use the baby as a convenient scapegoat for all their troubles, they can be little a-holes themselves. The 8 year old likes to argue about everything. Since he's accumulated tons of experience in his long life, he knows everything though, so it's alright. The teenager wants to do teenager-y things like eye rolling, deep sighing, and getting the 8 year old in (more) trouble by tattling on some minor infraction. Meanwhile, Dad and I are the equivalent of a magician and a three ring circus, trying to entertain the toddler until the waitress comes with food that we can shove in his face hole. This involves the crayons and coloring menus, iPhone video capability, and wrestling him back into the high chair that he's trying to climb out of every forty three seconds.

And this folks, is the story of my life.

Basically, my husband and I walk out frustrated, pissed off, and freaking exhausted. Apparently we aren't that bright though, because we try it again, thinking that this time we'll surely get different results.

Lately, the two year old demon channeling angel of mine (face of an angel, temper of the devil) has made things much more interesting by refusing to eat more than 4 different foods. And none of them are going to be what we order. He has decided that he doesn't like the old standby of chicken fingers.  He turns his nose up at apples, grapes, and mashed potatoes. His palate has grown far too advanced for such childhood favorites as french fries. Basically, we aren't even getting the reprieve the waitress would normally bring because now we're trying to juggle entertainment duties and eating. (By eating, I mean shoveling food in at a rate that will probably ensure Tums are in my future.) Not to mention that we get to have witnesses to what is obviously bad parenting since he won't ingest anything other than chocolate milk and lemon water while throwing crayons and other projectiles and pitching a fit to get down and run rampant through the restaurant.

He's lucky he's cute. And cuddly. And he smells good after a bath. (These are all things I have to remember when I'm trying not to hang him from his toes at the restaurant.)

One day, I'll look fondly back at these days, when my husband and I are dining quietly, enjoying the ability to eat our meal while it's still hot. We'll reminisce how cute they were in their little jeans, their ketchup covered faces smiling with glee. We'll think about the times we stayed home to avoid tantrums and judgy stares. And we'll think, "It's probably not as bad as we made it out to be." Until the three year old at table 12 starts screaming because her Mom gave her ketchup that she didn't want and the six year old knocks over his milk into his father's lap. Then we'll probably smile, clink our glasses together, and be glad we made it through (mostly) intact.

Why are you calling me Mom, strange little boy?