I’m writing my morning down as a reminder to myself that I shouldn’t be trying to do as much stuff outside of the house with two small children as I did with one small child.
The master plan for the day was to get the oil changed in the car, get a car wash, and head to the mall to let Payne play and pick up some dresses that I’d eyed the week before. I was ready for the excursion; packed to the gills in true suburban Mom fashion.
We get to the oil change place. It has popcorn in the waiting room. Score! Kid #1 is happy. Kid #2 is sleeping soundly in her carseat. It should be noted that Genevieve very rarely spits up, maybe an occasional dribble here and there. But when she decides to spit up (thus far, twice ever) she goes, um, full throttle. I think she does it when she overeats and just loses everything with a burp. So I’m perusing the internet on my phone and enjoying the quiet. I glance down at Genevieve and she’s quietly and calmly barfing…a lot. We’re talking infant volcano. I gasp and start sopping her up with her recieving blanket, only to have her barf some more. I pull her out of the carseat, dry her off, and change her clothes. I then turn my attention to the carseat. I turn it over to unhook the seatbelt straps only to find a puddle of spit up on the floor. I sop that up, return my attention to the carseat, get called up to the counter to pay. The nice man at the counter offers to drive my car over to the car wash section of the shop so I don’t have to rebuckle the kids. Awesome, except the baby seat is full of puke. I toss all of the soiled stuff into the carseat and treck across the parking lot, baby in one arm, seat on the other (which has dripped baby barf onto my left foot), yelling to Payne about keeping close to Mommy and not getting hit by cars and stuff the whole way there.
Once we get to the carwash I go outside, strip the cover off of the carseat, and wipe Genevieve down. Meanwhile, Payne is playing with the automatic door. I hear a man lightly admonish him about potentially getting hurt by the door. I’m embarrassed, and want to tell him I’d usually be on that, but I’m dealing with Baby Vesuvius over here. Ugh. I’m also cursing myself for not packing a zip lock bag or something.
Car is clean, seat is relatively clean (thank goodness for carseat covers), we all pack back up. Now at this point a sane person would just schlep everyone home and decompress for a bit, but I had a PLAN damnit. I had packed a lunch. We were going to the flipping mall. So I drive home, run in and start a load of laundry, grab a new change of clothes for Genevieve, zip lock bag, and recieving blanket (and a Diet Coke for myself for “fuel”), jump back in the car and drive to the mall.
We get to the play area and all is well. Genevieve is sleeping soundly, and Payne only gets one time out for a violent offense. I wait for the baby to wake up hungry. No dice. I get hungry, eat a few stale cheerios. I get hungrier (it’s not yet 11 a.m.) and eat Payne’s bag of nuts (hey, I gave him the ones I don’t like). I know I know, I’m turning into a regular toddler food stealer. Still getting hungrier. I pack up the boy and go to the food court to eat the lunch I packed. We finish. Baby is still sleeping. Okaaaaay…I guess I”ll go to that one single store I need to spend 20 minutes max in. Bathroom break, Payne doesn’t have poop…he tells me this loudly. He screams after me the whole 20 seconds I leave the stroller outside of the stall so I can pee. There is the usual game of 20 questions regarding what I’m doing in the stall.
We make it to the store. I’m grabbing what I want to try on as Payne is trying to drink my root beer (damn you stroller that faces the child towards the cupholder!). Genevieve is stirring. Shit. I give her a paci and make a beeline for the dressing rooms. Right that second I get a whiff of Payne, who has apparently taken a pretty righteous poo. Awesome. I park the monster stroller in the available monster dressing room (yay for small favors!) and plop Payne down on the bench in there with my root beer. I throw a burp cloth at him knowing how this will inevitably go down. Genevieve is crying. I re-paci her. I try on clothes in record time as I watch Payne spill root beer all over himself, over and over again. Once my jeans are back on I change Payne’s diaper…as Genevieve openly screams. I get Payne back into the stroller, turn around to put my shirt on, and turn back to see him trying to give the baby her paci (read shoving it into the very back of her mouth as she squeals). I yank him back, he cries. Oops. I pick up Genevieve and stroll at maximum strolling speed to the checkout counter. I check out with Genevieve crying, while the saleslady tries to strike up a conversation about breastfeeding…alrighty.
I powerwalk back to the play area, one hand on the stroller and one hand holding the wailing newborn. People look sort of aghast as they pass me. Payne falls out of the stroller (because he won’t stop crawling all over the damn thing when I forget to strap him down). I get him back in. He cries the rest of the way to the playground.
FINALLY, we get to the play area and Payne plays while I nervously feed Genevieve, hoping she won’t spew all over the both of us when she’s done. When she’s finished I stop Payne from “tickling” the other kids a few times and then we decide to head home. The car themometer reads 113 when I’m pulling out of the parking lot.
WHY did I do this? I can’t help but laugh at myself when things get crazy and I know it’s my own fault. The real kicker is that I’ll probably do something similar to myself next week.