Mom Tells the Truth

Yesterday morning my son came through the back door. “Did Baymax already poop today?” He asked.

Baymax, our six-year-old Maltipoo has a very predictable schedule. His bowel movements normally hit around 9:00 a.m. This morning, however, was the exception to the rule.

“He did,” I responded, “Did you step in it?”

“Yeah,” said my son, “and now it’s on my sock.”

“Why were you in the backyard at 6:30 a.m. in your socks?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “It is cold and dark.”

“Well,” he said slowly, the exasperation in his voice palpable, “I had to pee. And the bathrooms upstairs were occupied, and I’m not using the downstairs bathroom. It is disgusting.”

“So you went outside to pee.”

“Yeah.”

“In your socks.”

“Yeah.”

“And stepped in dog poop.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Okay,” I sighed, “just throw the sock away. I’m not putting dog poop through the washing machine.”

“Should I keep the other one?” He asked.

“Up to you,” I said, “Next time, can you just use a bathroom?”

“No.” he said.

And if that doesn’t sum up raising a boy, I don’t know what does.

Throwback Thursday: April 2009

My two-year-old daughter is fascinated with opening and closing doors. Every day I hear the doors slamming, opening, and slamming again. When visitors are ready to leave our home, she quickly pushes them outside, closes the door, and turns the lock. The lock is her favorite part.

The other day I was loading the baby and the five-year-old into the car. As I buckled the girls into their car seats, I heard the door to the garage slam, followed by a click. My two-year-old had locked me out of the house. Lucky for me, I had my keys so I could get back in.

The highlight of her day is when my husband comes home from work. As soon as she hears the garage door open, she runs to the door and locks him out. Isn’t she adorable?

In other news:

I took my five-year-old daughter to the pediatrician for a checkup. He advised that she should know how to dial 911. I had yet to teach her this skill because she is a bit of a worrier. I had a feeling she may find many situations an emergency. Against my better judgment, I taught her to call 911. I was very clear to emphasize to call only in case of emergency, and clearly defined what an emergency is.

This morning my daughter came into my bedroom and wanted me to wake up. I told her it was too early. As I was drifting in and out of sleep I heard her say, “I’m going to call 911 because my mom can’t get out of bed.” Surprisingly agile for someone half asleep, I grabbed the phone before she could call. I think we need to have another discussion about what qualifies as an emergency.

This holiday season, I made a goal for our children to understand the giving in Christmas, rather than their usual constant receiving. We chose to do ‘The 12 Days of Christmas.’ This project involves 12 days of leaving gifts on someone’s front porch and running away, undetected. It involved organizing and planning (something we all could do) and running up and down stairs quickly (something my kids could do—you aren’t going to catch me running unless someone is chasing me).

We chose a few families from our church to surprise. The first night, I had trouble finding the houses in the dark. The second night, I dropped my son off at the wrong place. He had to chase my car. “Mom,” he whisper-yelled, “This is the wrong house!”

By day five, we had it down to a science. My youngest daughter begged to drop the gifts off during daylight hours—running in the dark scared her. At one home, after my son had made his delivery, he said, “there was someone sitting on the front porch, and he said thank you. He doesn’t look like the guy from our church.”

“Are you sure?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said, “Maybe he is their uncle or something. He just said thanks for the gifts, but I don’t know who he is.”

Puzzled, I asked my husband, “Did they move?” I looked at the online church directory, and their address matched where we had left the gifts each night.

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure,” said my husband.

I sent a text to another church member, asking if the family had moved. She replied, “yes, they moved this spring.”

Well, that explained it. “Do we switch and take the rest of the gifts to the right address?” asked my husband.

“We’re too far in—we can’t stop now,” I said.

And so, in the true spirit of Christmas, we are delivering nightly gifts to perfect strangers. Strangers in a random house conveniently located on the other side of town. We have definitely found a way to make this holiday memorable.