This is the crap worth blogging about (pun very much intended) . . .
Oh, Monday, will we ever be friends? When my Aquanet-banged sisters rocked Manic Monday, I had no idea how prohpetic their lyrics would be: It's just another manic Monday. I wish it were Sunday. 'Cause that's my fun day. (I also had no idea how sexual the lyrics are - Google 'em, you'll see. I was in grade school naively singing about making noise in the bedroom. Geesh.)
Anyway, the mania today wasted no time as my 5-year-old nearly missed the bus (Rita, you said 7:17. That's very different than 7:15 when you're dragging three groggy-eyed whine-os to the bus stop). After barely getting Henry to the bus, I got the girls home and into the bathtub. I let them splash in urine water (Greta always pees the minute I set her in the tub) while I gathered laundry. As I was giving my worn-three-days-in-a-row cami the good ol' sniff test, I heard Harper ask a question that only a seasoned mother can decode, "Mom, why are there rocks in the bathtub?"
There's a lot of learned skills that come with motherhood, but one of our greatest is our ability to rapidly evacuate children out of a situation that involves soaking among floating feces.
Think high school fire drill, on 5-hour energy, minus the hippies who heed the opportunity to sneak into the vacant storage closet to smoke a doobie.
Get up. Get out. Get dry. And pose there just a minute while I take a picture for the Interwebs.
Of course Greta sensed my angst and streaked across the room, squeezing out one more "rock" before I could snatch her and slap a diaper on her bare bum. I think God must have started feeling bad for me because He delivered an ounce of grace with a towel perfectly positioned under the free spirit pooper to catch what I am convinced was her way of communicating, "Screw you and whatever plans you had for this morning. Now you gotta clean my crap outta the tub and wash this freshly-folded towel. Booyah."
I'd almost rather her smoking doobies.
After I swallowed any remnant of pride I still carried after five years of parenting, I pulled out the most efficient pooper scooper I could find, my hands, and lifted every single mushy turd outta that tub.
The poop situation wasn't over - Greta delivered a mess of a diaper during my morning jog in near-90 degree heat that left her wailing for the final 10 minutes of the jog. Again, I'm convinced the little blister butt was trying to communicate to me, and this time it was, "I saw you pound those chips and queso last night at dinner, run faster lady, run like ya mean it, RUN!"
Fast forward to the afternoon when I hopped in the shower for a quick rinse and my wannabe monkey pulled a chair from the dining room and pushed it to the counter, climbed up, pulled my weekly pill organizer off the microwave and popped three days worth of pills down her throat. Henry tipped me off when he noticed Greta had a "gooey mess all over her face."
Me: What kind of a gooey mess?
Henry: I don't know, but she's eating your vitamins.
Now it's my turn to evacuate the bath in record time.
I think the early morning sprint paid off (thank you, poop scoot) because I made it downstairs while baby girl was still pulling mashed up gelatin capsules from her pie hole. She handed me two half dissolved pills, and all I could think was, "Is this some sort of cry for help? Yo, look, third born, this is your lot in life, sista, you better find another way to get attention, because swallowing momma's herbal happy pills ain't gonna do nobody no good."
Sometimes when I am in distress, my gangsta comes out. So what if I grew up in the 'burbs? What are you saying? Nevermind. Leave me alone.
Fortunately this ain't my first rodeo, so I had poison control on the line and sweet Janice assured me that everything Greta consumed is safe, and I would receive a follow up call in 90 minutes to check on the baby.
Nevermind that my day had gone to crap, but whatevs, call back and check on the baby if that makes you feel better.
Geesh, did Janice not hear the part about the baby eating my HAPPY PILLS?
Even my hubs offered little support. When I tried to convince him that Greta's pill shenanigans were nothing more than a weak cry for help, he looked at me like I had lost my soul and said, "She's not even two. She needs help."
Humph. I see how it is now. Everybody gang up on momma.
But let me tell you. Motherhood is an intensive and brutish training ground for war.
In just one day, I perfected the poop fling and screaming baby sprint, all while surviving without mood-boosting herbal supplements. So if I were you, I wouldn't mess with momma.
Manic Momma will make you wish it were Sunday.