A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Luck of the Irish

Mr. Man had a tough day yesterday that started mid afternoon playing at the toy mecca.  True, he hasn’t been sleeping well for the past several days, coughing jarring him awake, but I think it ultimately bothered me more than him.  We went to our music class and he was rolling right along.  After the class he searched for his precious fishing pole toy, but to no avail.  No worries, though, he found a surrogate in the form of a small hydrant and attached hose that he took reasonable pleasure carting around; that is until some random elderly woman takes it away from him, speaking in some lengthy lecture I couldn’t hear, but clearly on the level a twenty-month-old would understand.  My son looked at her befuddled, staring and gaping before trotting off.

Part of me wanted to walk up and ask her the purpose of taking toys from small children who are using them appropriately, but when my son didn’t seem particularly affected, I decided to just watch her instead.  There is no shortage of garden variety crazies out there, and she quite possibly is one of them.  True, she is in the winter of her existence, but I’m pregnant and can’t breathe well.  If my toddler can get away from me with a casual saunter, she appears to be a linebacker in bodily constitution.

Regardless, my curiosity was answered soon enough.  She spent the afternoon redirecting her grandson for not playing in the correct manner and organizing this giant play space where scores of children were in the process of complete bedlam.  I don’t know what her deal was, but some battles aren’t worth picking.

At least I can say that my child wasn’t the one who climbed on a chair when unattended and absconded with an unsupervised cupcake allocated for a birthday party.  Actually, absconded isn’t quite the right word, as the two-year-old was sitting merrily in front of the container of strewn treats licking neon green frosting from chocolate cake before a very angry woman in the process of sprouting Medusa’s snakes despite having no attachment to the cupcakes, pulls him off the chair and drags him to the playspace’s overseer.  Apparently, the child had been sitting there planning world domination in mid cupcake for “twenty minutes” without a parent around.  In reality it was maybe thirty seconds, but I know full well how time stops when one is in the process of behaving like a completely irrational bitch.  I give her credit though, she didn’t hold back with the child’s mother either.  So, my crazy lady could have been her.  Maybe I should have bought one of those record lottery tickets after all.

As has become a trend for just under a week, Little Man did not take a good nap; yesterday the shortest yet.  Poor kid kept coughing and the impulse didn’t subside enough for him to sleep later despite red lidded eyes.  Surprisingly, other than his trademark impulsive behavior in the form of annoying mischief and general disregard for appropriate conduct that occurs when he is not well rested, he was reasonably jovial.  I thought for sure I would be able to add cranky to the mix of perpetual redirection and hauling off of furniture.

But, the night progressed and neither my husband nor I had the energy to give him a bath, planning for Mr. Man’s early bedtime.  My husband took him upstairs to, “start the process,” and at the rump end before sleepy-time I went into my son’s room to deliver the partially dry sleep sack to my men.  Little Man was just about asleep on my husband’s lap, but he sees me and immediately becomes upset realizing he will be jostled.  Then the red-faced, pained wailing ensues where he beckons me to take him with rigid, outstretched arms.  My husband is trying to shepherd the process of sacking Mr. Man, and just as he is zipped, vomit spews from his mouth in true Exorcist fashion.  I really should have bought lottery tickets because I was spared any ounce of coating, all landing squarely down my son’s front and all over my husband’s lap and legs.

The remaining evening was spent with my husband fumigating himself of dinner purge and me singing to my son in the bath we were trying to avoid all evening.  Some water, crackers, and cuddling; and my son was asleep by eight-thirty.  As I processed through my end of the night media checks, I had to make note of the date; could it really still be the same day?

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