As a wonderful parent (ahem), I treasure every moment with my child. I miss him all day while he’s at school, and every afternoon I count down the minutes until it’s time to pick him up and spend some quality time together. I take great joy in all the cute little things he does and says, am in awe at how quickly he changes and learns and grows, and feel my heart fill with joy whenever he says my name. I truly love him more than I can even describe.
As a normal human being, sometimes I am driven to the brink of insanity by his toddler antics and want to smash my face into a wall, toss him into bed early, and calm my nerves in a bathtub full of vodka.
Last night I was a normal human being.
It’s been a rough week around here. The dear lad has been struck with yet another ear infection (number six thousand of the year, if you’re keeping count), which of course means that he’s cranky and out of sorts (is there anything sadder than a teary-eyed toddler pointing at his ear and saying “hurt, hurt”? The answer is no), and thanks to all the doctor’s visits and requisite childcare shuffling that accompany every ear infection, I too am feeling out of sorts. (Yes, I’m complaining that my child’s painful illness is a hassle for me. I’m the worst.) After four days of middle-of-the-night Tylenol, driving to the most inconveniently-located doctor’s office in the world (WHY DOES IT ALWAYS TAKE 45 MINUTES TO DRIVE 3 MILES DOWN LA CIENEGA BOULEVARD? AND WHY DON’T THEY ALLOW RIGHT TURNS WHEN YOU EXIT THEIR STUPID PARKING LOT?! WHYYYYYY?!), and scrambling to find a last-minute babysitter who doesn’t mind watching a sick kid, by the time I picked him up from my backup babysitter’s house yesterday evening I was exhausted.
Of course, despite his boogery nose and my irritation at having my week upended by this child’s uncooperative (and seemingly spiteful) eustachian tubes, I still had to proceed with our evening routine. I briefly considered throwing a box of cookies at him and and shutting him in his room so I could lay down on the couch and watch Disappeared on Netflix, but responsibility won out and I set out to make him dinner. Here’s how the next 20 minutes of my life went:
5:30pm: I realize that the dining room table is completely inaccessible thanks to a scrapbooking project I started the day before (and likely will not finish for weeks) and determine that Bubba will have to eat dinner in the living room at his little table instead. I realize that he will probably want to eat all of his meals in front of the TV from now on and accept my fate because that’s easier than trying to move the scrapbooking mess to an alternate location.
5:31: At his request, I give Bubba some cheese to munch on while dinner is in the works. Because it’s FUN and I’m a FUN mom, I give it to him in one of those little plastic helmets in which ice cream is served at Dodger Stadium. (OK, fine: I was just out of clean plastic bowls.)
5:32: “Mama! HAT!!!!” Bubba has placed the helmet on his head and the cheese is now all over the carpet, coated in dog hair (sidenote: I swear we don’t live in filth; I vacuum regularly but my dog sheds a LOT). I can’t even blame him since it was, in fact, a hat.
5:33: “More?”
5:34: More cheese is delivered, this time on a plate. I get back to working on his dinner, i.e. microwaving some leftover chicken. (Just call me Martha Stewart!)
5:35: “ALL DONE!” Bubba has decided he’s done with the cheese and helpfully attempts to bring me the plate. Obviously, every single piece of cheese winds up on the floor.
5:36: “More?” ARE YOU F*&@ING KIDDING ME?!
5:37: I ignore his cheese request and bring him the chicken. ON A PLATE.
5:38: One bite of chicken has been consumed. I hop up to get the dishwasher going.
5:39: “ALL DONE!” I turn around just in time to see a third round of food hit the floor.
5:42: “Bagel?”
5:43: I know I shouldn’t just give him whatever he wants, but the kid hasn’t eaten any dinner and he’s sick and at least he’s requesting something specific (and easy), so I put a bagel in the toaster. Also, I’m a pushover.
5:46: I deliver the bagel (complete with cream cheese, of course) and wisely remain at the table with him this time. He happily shoves a piece into his mouth.
5:47: Bubba stands up, plate in hand. Since I am right there this time, I grab it from him and ask where he’s going. Without saying a word, he makes his way over to his Elmo couch and lays down. “Bagel?” He asks hopefully.
5:48: I give him the stupid plate so he can eat the stupid bagel while laying down on his stupid Elmo couch while watching Elmo on the stupid TV. You guys, I was just over it, ok?
5:50: “All done!” Bagel, meet floor.
5:51: Vodka.
The Baby Is Fine 
lol! You are so funny.
My meal times seem to be – let’s throw food at the dog. Sometimes he’ll eat it if he’s in the mood!
ps hope you get the scrapbooking done, I like doing that too..
Vodka please!! Is your doctor thinking tubes for bubba?
You’re doing just fine, Mo.
Kidzilla had something like eleven back-to-back ear infections between September and March before we finally cried ENOUGH and the pediatrician said let’s talk tubes. Yes, let’s. The pathetic sad face, the daycare and work juggling that leaves you feeling like a horrible mom because you’re pissed that you can’t just live your life like a regular person, the up all night Tylenol watch, etc. etc. Been there, done that. You’re completely normal.
Hope Bubba is feeling better and that you are maintaining some feeble sense of sanity.
And, for the record, I would’ve totally tossed the kid whatever he wanted to eat. Sometimes you just gotta go with the theory that any food is fine, especially when they’re sick and don’t want anything but juice and Elmo (dear God – Elmo).
My condolences. And by that I mean, yep. Sometimes vodka really is the only answer.