Birthdays. Cats. Tantrums. And Urine. So. Much. Urine.
Of course, a 5 year old can't come out and say that. And a 6 year old is not going to sit you down to discuss her traumatic and unstable history. Instead, she's going to complain about the decorations. She's going to open her presents and look at them and kind of half smile and say, ".... so is that it?" And then reply "Oh." when you let her know that yes, the shiny new bicycle was the "big" gift, and nothing else would be coming after. Side note? It's not funny, it's sad. BUTATTHESAMETIME, her father and I survived a good deal of that era by anticipating and then mimicking her "Debbie Downer" responses to every nice thing. Not in front of her, so we're clear. That was for us. Don't judge me. You don't know my life.
|This is what Good Birthday looks like.|
But let's be honest. A good day for me is great. But it's boring and it's not helpful to anyone else. Because why do y'all care if I had a good day? You want to hear what came next.
You want to hear about the NEXT day, when I had 3 kids on a sugar hangover. You want to hear about all the screaming, and the crying and the emotional shutting down, and about what happened when I tried to make the boys have a quiet time. That's the fun stuff. And because I'm cool, I'll give up the goods.
So the boys were in quiet time. And it mostly wasn't going great, based on the sounds of the talking and the laughing and the random loud bangs emitting from their room. So I walked in to check on them, because Hashtag Great Moms do stuff like that, and find the 4 year old standing at the door, looking... guilty. Yikes.
As you may know, there's a spider in the boys' room. A spider, living in a terrarium, and when he showed up at the door looking at me like, "I just did something you're really gonna hate," my first thought said they destroyed the spider's house. I was expecting broken glass and dead or loosed tarantula. But luckily, or unluckily, that's not what I found. Instead, there was a 6 inch circle of moisture on the carpet in the middle of the room. I look back at the boy.
"You. Peed. YOU PEED?!?!"
SO WE ARE CLEAR, the 4 year old has been potty trained for about 3 years now. I don't carry a change of clothes or remind him to use the toilet because that mess was handled YEARS ago. But on the other hand, said child did urinate all the heck over himself in class a couple of weeks ago because he is new here, and he didn't think his teacher would let him go to the bathroom, so he was trying to hold it instead*. This sounds sad. It is not sad. The child was not sad. He was matter of fact and then super flummoxed by things like, "my socks are wet?!? WOW!" He is fine. But he's peeing everywhere now I guess so ew.
Now I'm looking at this spot on the floor and thinking maybe this kid has a medical problem, but he quickly informs me that this is NOT a medical problem. It is a BRAIN problem. A brain problem, because what happened was, his brother told him he should go pee on the floor, because it would be hilarious. So then he did it. So obviously brain problems. From there, I look up at Big Brother who is sitting up on his bed, trying hard to hide his smiling face behind a blanket. Let me assure you, I made sure those boys did not finish the day still under the impression that it is hilarious to pee on the carpet. Tiny jerks.
But I should've seen it coming, probably. The night before, the kids were brushing teeth and using the restroom when I hear one of the girls yell "Mooooooom, Harper just drank his own peeeeeeeeee!" And then he said it was yummy and told her she should try some and I ignored it and sent them to bed because there's some things in this world that I am not emotionally cappable of dealing with. And as it turns out, my precious, tiny, 8 pound, 5 ounce baby boy, my Momma's Boy, my sweet little cuddler purposefully drinking his own urine, well it was just past my limit.
Tantrums and Urine. That is my life now. But just the same, Wednesday was still a good one, and I'm calling it a win. WOOT!
Quick send off: I tucked the kids in to bed tonight, and as I leaned down to hug my 4 year old, he smiled and said, "Good night, Cracker!" I.... gonna be honest, didn't know how to respond, so I moved on to his brother. But apparently, little dude was not done. "I called you a cracker, because you ARE a cracker!"
So a part of me is wondering where we are picking up these racial slurs, but the other part is wondering if maybe this was just a really conveniently accurate weird joke on his part (he recently started calling my mother peanut, maybe he's on a snack foods kick?) but either way I mean... it's not like he's wrong. And maybe he's not weird. Maybe he's just super Woke for a four year old. Because the truth is, I AM a Cracker. And I see that now. Way to put my in my place, tiny white male.
*Pro Tip: The teacher will always prefer you use the toilet. Always.