It’s bathtime. With a 1yr old and a 2yr old. Neither have napped. To put it lightly, they’re being maniacs. The screaming, splashing and roughhousing is in full swing and I’m just trying to stay dry. It’s simultaneously adorable and pure chaos all at the same time.
I’m sitting on a potty. A potty that never gets used by anyone but my husband or I to lay our tired asses on during bathtime. My almost 3yr old has adopted the slogan “Diapers 4-Eva” and my Amazon Prime membership will have to remain intact until the year 2031, which is the year he enters college. I’ll have to ensure Pampers still makes his size somehow. I’m sure he’ll be into some new character by then so the standard Elmo Diapers probably won’t cut it. If I can recall Freshman year of college, he’ll probably want some Miller Lite branded diapers. I’ll have to specially source these for him. Actually, who am I kidding? I couldn’t afford Miller Lite in college. Busch Lite it is. Entrepreneurs out there: there’s a market for these diapers- get on it.
While I’m talking about diapers, my 1yr old took a shit on the floor tonight. In the middle of the living room. I was “cooking” dinner (aka throwing some chicken nuggets in the toaster oven) and making daycare lunches for the next day. He has become an expert at ripping his diaper off right at the precise time he’s about to pee and/or take a crap all over the floor. If I’m really lucky, he does both. He assumes the position and shits right in the middle of the living room/ his brother’s bed/ his bedroom floor (you choose the fun location). It’s a real treat. At first I took this this “ripping diaper off to relieve himself” routine a sign that he was ready to potty train as well. Not the case. I’ve spent precious hours of my life crouched next to the potty murmuring encouraging words that have resulted in nothing. “Come on poopies! Come out, little poppies! Go in the potty, poopies!” There hasn’t been a damn poopy to listen to me yet.
As I sit here, watching them play and pretty much distoy the bathroom; I think about bedtime. Ah, bedtime. The ultimate goal. Bedtime means the house will be quiet. Bedtime means I can crack open that bottle of wine. Bedtime means I can grab some more Clorox wipes and scrub the location of said earlier shit within a 4 foot radius again just to make sure it’s all gone. Bedtime means I can do a load of laundry, pick up 2,456 matchbox cars and still find a way to step on one at some point and barely cheat death.
Speaking of, have you ever stepped on a matchbox car, a stray Lego, a toy of some sort and come THIS.CLOSE to the end of your life? I’ll trip over one of these things and my life flashes before my eyes. In the course of 3 seconds, I’ll think “This is it. This is how it ends. I’m going to crack my neck on one of these mini death traps and I’ll be gone. How are my kids going to live without me? How will my husband survive? How sad will this funeral be? A distraught man and his two toddlers walking down the aisle of the church, unable to control their tears as they say goodbye to their dear mommy who perished in their living room at the ripe age of 33 on a fucking Blaze and the Monster Machines truck. Will friends and family make them casserole dishes so they can eat a normal meal in my absence? Will my husband remarry? He better remarry someone hot if he is going to. Of course, no one will measure up to me…” And as I catch myself from certain death I realize that I’m delusional and that I obviously need more sleep.
Bathtime unfortunately usually ends with someone crossing the line for the last time after multiple warnings. Dumping water on the other one’s head, kicking, running away and escaping the bath, or just plain over tired melt downs (which is how tonight ended).
As I write this, I survived bedtime, cheated death and made my way over to the wine opener. I’ve got atleast 4 hours until the little one wakes up, because we all know sleep is for suckers. The older one may be wearing diapers to college, but the little one may not sleep through the night until then either. Until then, cheers. I’m on glass #2 of wine, they’re both asleep, I’m alive, and life is good. Maybe tomorrow someone will crap on the potty. A girl can dream.