I think I may just have to admit that it’s a lost night for homework. On so many other nights like this, when David is away and I am alone with the girls, I spend the hours after they are in bed cleaning and organizing my life. If David were home, I would do a much abbreviated version of the same thing and spend most of the time before sleep hanging out. And now that school has started again, chores of all kinds and quality time with my husband are both, most unfortunately and most abruptly, halted. This precious time after my little darlings have been shuttled off to dreamland is now wholly devoted to doing what I can to get my assignments in on time, and there is not a moment to spare.
Since, however, I am only now settling in at the computer at ten o’ clock, I figure the night is half over and my time is just as well spent explaining why.
I had been unusually pleasant and patient with the kids this night. Possibly this was because my friends watched the girls earlier and allowed me to run some errands alone. Possibly it was because I successfully navigated a 5-year-old well-child checkup with shots by myself. Possibly it was because I found a steal on a new pair of cool shoes. I don’t know. But dinnertime is the witching hour at my house, and if there ever was a time of day for everything to fall apart, that is it.
So David is always telling me that I shouldn’t spend so much time on dinner, since we mostly end up eating in a rush and fighting with the kids to eat at all. It’s just a lot of effort for not a lot of reward on your standard night of the week. I have a real problem in this area though. I believe in eating well whenever possible and putting a little work into it too. I’ve also really been trying to make a weekly menu and shop for it and stick to it so there is less waste and less stress about “what’s for dinner.” So, “what’s for dinner” tonight was soy-glazed salmon with noodles and spinach salad. Seriously. I know that might sound fancy, but I got it out of a “30-minute meals” cookbook, and I had the salmon thawed in the fridge.
So we started dinner kind of late and my kids were wild, but like I said I’ve been pretty agreeable all day and I was really taking it in stride and, darn it, I was making salmon. I did too. I totally whipped it up while the girls colored and read and settled down, waiting patiently for their supper. I fed the baby avocados (her favorite) and sighed deeply with satisfaction as I plated the shiny green leaves and placed the salmon atop pretty piles of pasta, feeling like the Iron Chef for having achieved such a fantastic presentation in the nick of time.
Good thing too, because I am hypoglycemic and had been dangerously staving off my meltdown with cookies and caffeine until now, and my hands were actually trembling as I put everything on the table. At this moment, the whining set in:
Vivi: “My tummy hurts!”
“You need to eat.” I responded.
“But Mom! My bottom hurts!”
“I am very sorry. I can’t imagine why!” I said without empathy. “You will still have to sit on it. It’s time for dinner.”
“But Mom! I feel like I have to poop!”
“Well, for crying out loud, Vivi! Go!” I chided her, still fairly pleasant. (But honestly!) Vivienne has a habit of needing to poop just as we are sitting down to eat dinner. She is not trying to manipulate; her body’s internal timing is just very unfortunate. She also has a habit of spending an eternity on the toilet for this endeavor, for what reason I do not know. Recently, we were in Target for a quick in-and-out, grab-it-and-go shopping trip, when she told me she had to use the potty. She occupied the stall in that public bathroom for a full 20 minutes while I watched other shoppers come and go and tried to pretend that I was not utterly exasperated. So this, coupled with the fact that I was trembling with hunger did not set me up to be a very compassionate mom when she refused to go upstairs, claiming to be scared.
Now, this is completely unfair of me. I remember quite well being a kid and being scared to be even somewhat isolated in a house or any unfamiliar space. Shucks, I am supposed to be a grown up, and I still feel this way. But like I said, I was already trembling, and the baby was clamoring for more avocados, and Lydia was giving me static about the noodles, and I was just completely unreasonable.
“Vivi! I am not going to sit upstairs for 20 minutes while you poop! I am going to eat my dinner!” She began to plead harder.
“But Mom! I am SCARED!”
“You are not scared! I am hungry!” (What?)
“But Mom! I don’t want to be by myself!”
(With mouthful of food..) “Fine, Vivi. I will go up there. But you need to poop quickly.” I followed a whimpering Vivienne up the stairs and we parted ways at the top, she to the bathroom and me to the office. Since our house is only about 900 square feet, we were not very far apart. But then, we wouldn’t have been if I had remained downstairs with my dinner either. After a few minutes, I went to her and asked if I could please return to the table while she finished up. She found this acceptable, and I hurried back to my cold dinner and began shoveling it in. I barely looked up to notice that Lydia had disappeared. She had gone to the new bathroom in the basement—you guessed it, to poop. I knew this because, as I said, the house is small and we are not that far away from each other on any level.
Hastily, I shoved more dinner into my mouth, because the baby was out of patience at this point. Mouth full, I tried sweet-talking her trying to string her along a few more minutes. In response, she just looked at me, seeming to focus on something directly behind my head. All at once, she flushed a beautiful rosy pink and let out a small grunt, in solidarity with her older sisters. I stared back at her in disbelief and said out loud, “Blythe. You have got to be kidding me.”
Just then, Vivienne appeared, half naked, and whined loudly that she was, in fact, not done upstairs and needed me to rejoin her immediately. At this point, I lost the last vestige of my parental “cool.” I shouted, “Vivienne Renee! You get back up those stairs immediately and wipe your bottom!”
“But Mom! I am not done pooping!”
“Then go upstairs and poop!” At this, she actually crossed the floor to come closer to me and the remains of my dinner and pleaded some more. Suddenly, the downstairs bathroom seemed more reasonable to her. Surely she could poop happily there since it would be easier to hear me while I chewed my food on the main floor. I assured her the distance was the same. Anyway, downstairs was occupied.
She began to dance around and panic, and here is where, in my utter exasperation, I broke one of the cardinal rules of parenting: Never say something unless you are willing to follow through. I pronounced, “Vivienne! Do not poop on my floor, or I will ground you, and you will not go to [sweet little friend’s] birthday tomorrow!” These kinds of statements come out when you are just tapped out and don’t know what else to say. They also tend to come right before your child forces you to make good on your ridiculous threat. In this case, that meant poop all over the floor.
I covered my mouth and stared in horror at the pile of loose stool next to my dining table. Vivi just wailed, “Don’t ground me from the birthdaaaaaaaaay!” I racked my brain for the rational, reasonable response in this situation, but I came up with none, and I continued to sit and stare.
How did everything go so wrong, so fast?
Lydia then emerged from the basement. She too stopped and stared. She turned to me in disbelief and asked, “Is that from Vivienne?” I nodded a solemn confirmation. She then turned slowly and stepped over the little mound and went upstairs. She returned with a package of handi-wipes. Without saying anything, she took one out and began to clean the floor. This oldest daughter of mine, who so takes after me, so often showing an indifference or lack of compassion, silently cleaned up the ridiculous, disgusting, shameful mess that was not hers. She then very sternly, in a most first-born manner, directed the hysterical Vivienne upstairs and coached her through the process of getting herself cleaned up.
In a daze, I picked up the baby and began her bedtime routine, while in the bathroom the mood lightened dramatically. Vivi darted into the room where I was with her navy blue t-shirt hanging off the back half of her head, and announced proudly that she was all done pooping. She looked like a naked nun. The two made their way back downstairs and basically spread the noodle portion of the dinner all over the floor and announced they were both full. I returned to this glorious mess after they were all in bed and began the long task of cleaning everything, including (and most especially) the floors. Oddly, this night passed with little yelling. I thought of this while I was scrubbing on my hands and knees and counted the evening an overall success. I also recalled my earlier successful doctor appointment with Vivienne, where in response to the doctors’ survey, “Is she fully potty trained?” I incredulously and somewhat smugly replied, “Of course!”
