My three year old son and I spent the weekend together, both with colds. He had given me this particular strain, so he was at the tail end of the worst of it, with minor clear nose-running. I, on the other hand, reached a fever high of 102.6, with 1,500mgs of acetaminophen (Tylenol from the dollar store) in my system. I fumbled through hugs and meals and managed to play with him even.
Sunday was a rough one... My mom called in the morning, told me of her and Giles' plans for an afternoon movie and offered to pick up Landon afterwards, saying she really enjoyed the time with him, and I would get better faster if I had more rest. So those plans were made, and I expected them around 4:20 - 4:30. Brad really needed some money on his card for food (which I had to transfer for him), and Landon needed a nap. Brad said he could wait a bit, so I put Landon down and darkened the room as much as possible, turned on the fan, and left him with an I KNOW IT MAKES ME A BAD MOM THAT HE'S THREE AND HE STILL GETS 3 BOTTLES A DAY bottle of milk bottle. (Was it conveyed thoroughly that I don't want to get shit for that?)
At this time, Grandma and PawPaw's movie should have been well underway. I was even concerned that he may still be asleep when they arrived for him after it. Oh, how wrong I was... Usually Landon will suck down about half of a BAD MOM bottle and pass out, especially more than two hours past regular naptime. But I wasn't sure if I was hearing some screwing around in there or not. I peeked in to find my son in the middle of his room, and glancing around, saw POOLS of milk EVERYWHERE. I know, it's my fault. He shouldn't have had the BAD MOM bottle to begin with. But he also knows this is not a painting instrument, and even when he was still young enough to get away with drinking a bottle in public without nasty glances from people at Wal-Mart wearing attire that should be felonious, he knew that this was a definite NO-NO. Let's see... pools of BAD MOM milk on the dresser, in front of the TV. BAD MOM milk covering one of the three stools he still has from toddler drum-kits long since trashed (true rock-star style... he throws the sticks at the end of the gig and everything). BAD MOM milk running from the top of his Hot Wheels track to the bottom, through all the twists and turns. A birthday present from my dear friend Kelly, no less Loved, just hard to miss with all that BAD MOM milk to paint up the room with. I was FURIOUS. I was delusional. I was hallucinating from fever, catching glimpses of shadow people in the corners... really kind of freaking. Additionally, Landon's hair and clothing were wet I can only assume, BAD MOM milk. Surely it would ripen nicely within a couple of hours. I gave him a towel, I took one for myself, and we set to work cleaning up the BAD MOM MILK ROOM. At one point, he tried to start singing the song they do at preschool, "Clean up, clean up, enneybody clean up" (Landon dialect). I think he realized I was mad for REAL when not only did I NOT join in... I didn't even look at him. He fell silent and continued wiping lazily at the BAD MOM pools, smearing more than anything. I didn't care. He was going to at least THINK he was cleaning up his ridiculous mess.
After the clean up was over, I marched Landon into the kitchen and made him watch as I threw every last bottle in the house into the trash. He seemed unfazed. I think he was so exhauseted he was just zombie like... or maybe he'd been waiting for me to grow a pair and do this for a long time. I stripped my kid and put him in the tub. The total contents of the tub were water, a washcloth, two cups, and shampoo/conditioner/bodywash in my hand. This was not a toy-filled, creating creatures, playing with dishes and Mr. Bubble (yes, they still make it and it still kicks ass), and sliding from the back of the tub to the front, barely escaping smashing his toddler nads on the built-in drain. One of these days he's going to be that half-inch taller that will send him into a pain I will never know. FYI: It's okay that your package hurts when it gets the whammy, guys. Deal with PMS, periods, sore tits, leg and other elaborate shaving endeavors, and maybe even one day push a kid out of your glory hole... then bitch to me that you had to stop too quick on your bike one day and your balls got smashed. I will laugh in your silly face. But I digress...
Landon was pulled OUT of the tub prematurely (if you ask him... there was NO playing involved), he was lotioned, diapered, and dressed, and still, I was told by PawPaw to wait at home because plans were made with Gramma that morning for her to pick up Landon after they went to an afternoon movie, and he assured me she was definitely coming. She dropped him off to have a few beers, and then was going to drive PAST my apartment over 19 blocks to "get her cellphone" (Why did she need her phone? Why couldn't she just come over here after leaving PawPaw at the bar?" There are very obvious answers to that, but this spooky tale isn't CLOSE to being spooky enough for THAT topic to be involved), but he had also told me that she had dropped him off over an hour before the time sat at this point. Landon was sitting on the couch, bathed, dressed, very proud that he had brushed his teeth shiny and had gel in his hair. He even had shoes on and wasn't attempting to tear them off. Anyone who knows Landon knows that he got the "free my feet" gene from his eldest sister Kyli. Landon was singing a tune he made up about Gramma. I could wait no longer. Brad needed food and it was 5:18.
It was VERY cold out. At least, the wind was VERY cold. We bundled up, and I told him we were going to the store, not to Gramma's. He's an adaptable kid. And with his no-nap delusions of his own, who knows... maybe the shadow people were telling him to just be good and they'd stay in the corners where they belonged. All I know is that he DIDN'T throw a tantrum because his plans were stripped from him, and that was a minor miracle I was willing to be grateful for and not question.
We arrived at the dreaded Wal-Mart. I am positive that prior to purchasing my car, it was installed with a device that forces it to drive directly to Wal-Mart before I can go ANYWHERE else. I can't STAND that place... and I'm ALWAYS there. It's close to my home, and everyone else's in the United States. It's (comparatively) cheap. I needed diapers. I needed Birthday Bash ice cream in the worst way.
The clerk I chose was brand new, but very sweet. She really had a hard time with the MoneyPak. She called for a supervisor. I saw said supervisor begin to waddle our way from one entrance of the store. I was about in the middle of the store. The supervisor's resemblance to a walrus was uncanny. She was LITERALLY taking the SLOWEST steps I have EVER seen anyone take before in my lifetime. Before she could make it to the checkstand, I had explained to the flustered cashier how to ring up the MoneyPak, in a separate transaction, and that all digits of the amount desired to be loaded needed to be entered, ie: $100 = 10000. Then I need to confirm that amount, and pay that plus the service charge. I got my receipt before the walrus could smack her gum in my face and ask me with grace, "Whatcha need?" I didn't trust myself to reply, so I just left. Wal-Mart supervisors are very easy to spot, should you ever need one (I can't imagine why. They are far more useless than the new cashier that really needs a job, and thinks there will come a time when they will understand their job and it will become easier. It never does.) Anyway, the supervisor's badge says "Supervisor", so they decorate them with all kinds of blingy stickers and stick on jewels. They also wear them like, RIGHT in the middle of their shirt, or go all-our and buy a really loud lanyard to affix it to, so they can swing them around. Also, they are given the almighty Wal-Mart Walkie-Talkie. There are no "levels" of supervisors, just a bunch of them on staff at the same time. So all they do with those Walkie-Talkies is tell each other to go here, go there, help with this, there's a customer that needs a fish, etc.
Oh, it should be noted here that you could wait HOURS for someone to get you a fish, if you really want to take home something that's either going to grow into a gargantuan retard fish that had to have come from a water treatment plant somewhere, or a janky little tetra that's going to die within two days and infiltrate your whole tank with bacteria and infectious disease at the same time. If you DO want one of these, open the cupboard next to the fish that looks like a filing cabinet, take out one of those bags, a net, and the plastic measuring cup. Swing the door above your fish tank up and it'll open. Fill the bag with a couple of cups of water from the tank. Catch your fish with the net by forcing it into a corner, it's really easy. As I said, they're all on the brink of death or bloated with food or other fish from the tank. Either way, none of them are a challenge. Scoop a couple more cups of water in there, so the bag's about 3/4 full. Blow some air in it, and if you're lucky enough to find a rubber band, use that to secure the bag. If you're really lucky, you'll find a permanent marker and then you do this: Look on the tank for a short description of what could possibly be what you have in the bag with the lowest price you can find. Write the short description and the UPC on the bag and if you have more than one, write x3 or whatever. Write the actual price per fish too. If you DON"T find the rubber band OR marker, tie a simple knot like you would with sweats before you throw them in the dryer, you know, so you can pull on one end and it'll open. Fish out a scrap of paper from your purse and write all that shit I described on the paper and give it to the cashier. It doesn't matter if they've worked there for 20 years... bitch about how it took you 45 minutes and six tries before you physically tracked down an associate to help you. Don't feel bad about lying. If you really DID try to get help, it would take MUCH longer. They won't even look twice. Not even walrus supervisors with almighty Walkie Talkies.
I raced with the cart and my kid to my car. I wanted to get him in first, because the wind was whipping up and it was COLD. I set him in the carseat, and as I loaded the few bags into the back I guess Landon found an old keychain/led flashlight thing. Brad has owned about a billion of these in his lifetime probably. This one was hanging by a thread, and barely looked dim when he pushed the button. I started to secure his carseat straps and out of NOWHERE, my sweet little son began repeatedly BEATING ME IN THE FACE with the metal keychain part of the device he had. I think I was so stunned by his violent behavior that I couldn't move for very long and I took a few good whippings around my nose and cheekbones. I'm not sure, but I think he was smiling if not laughing, and I'm sure his intentions were not to inflict pain on me. But that was it. The dam broke. There's been SO MUCH going on with me emotionally lately, and I have VERY few people to talk to candidly and honestly. Mostly because the majority of my family have already formulated their opinions of me and others in my life that I Love and care for, and they have very strong ideas about what is in my best interest and what isn't, and they aren't afraid to share them, even (and especially) unsolicited. Landon's sudden attack with the metal part of that flashlight while I was securing him for a safe ride home with milk and diapers and other provisions was all too symbolic for me of the cruelty that dominates the way people generally treat one another on this planet I've been forced to exist on for over 43 years now. All of sudden, I just couldn't take, watch, or hear about ANY MORE, and I desperately wanted to not exist at that very moment. I sobbed uncontrollably. I tried to call my only female cousin who is more like my sister, and she couldn't understand me. This happens to me sometimes. As an empath, I can only liken it to something similar to a rain gauge. I can only be witness to so much cruelty from humans to one another, humans to animals, humans to strangers, genocide, school shootings... when the gauge is full, a broken shoelace can break the dam. At this point, I am left to my own devices to pull myself out of the funk. Sometimes shorter, sometimes deeper and longer, it usually takes a good amount of isolation (not to stew in negativity, but to avoid the gauge that may be added to anywhere, anytime), a fair amount of candles, a generous amount of Paul Simon, Alanis Morissette, and Jason Mraz, sometimes that Birthday Party ice cream or a couple of Swiss Rolls... pictures of my kids both near and far, encouragement from people that I know really DO Love me like Leslie, Kelly, and LOTS AND LOTS of prayer and meditation, before I feel healthy enough to deal with the world and expose myself to the possibility of more cruelty. If I am upset because I feel DEEPLY harmed by a particular PERSON hurting me in a very distinct and personal, inconsiderate and thoughtless manner, I may have to avoid that person for an unwelcome amount of time. It's not up to me. If the person has any interest in repairation of the issue, and doesn't come at me with snarky comments or darts labeled "You're too Sensitive", earlier healing is possible. It does NOT happen often.
I got through the rest of the night with my son. Fed him, snuggled, got him to bed early. This was this first napless day for him that I can remember. He was over-tired, because he whimpered constantly and I was in and out of his room several times rubbing his back and comforting him.
Apparently I left Landon's final shitty diaper on the floor before I put him to bed (I NEVER do that!). He began whimpering at some point, I stumbled to him through the darkness and consoled him back to sleep rather quickly with a back rub and yep... you guessed it... on my way back out, stepped DEAD CENTER on that diaper and the time-coated-shit-smell-seal was broken as the cold putty like poop oozed up between my toes like my foot was a goddamn PlayDoh Fun Factory. NOTHING FUN ABOUT IT. My gorge rose as the stench took on a visual presence and engulfed my being. It was a sinister shade of green quite hard to describe, but it also carried a taste that coated the nasal hairs I wasn't aware I had, and wrapped it's disgusting self around my tongue like a sock. No matter how many smelly soap gels, loofahs, scrunchie sponges, and even PUMICE stones seemed to make that smell disappear from my flesh. Finally slathered it in that heel crack foot lotion and covered my feet with socks. Then began the slow digestion of at least a spoonful of everything in my refrigerator hoping to erase the assault on my mouth. I started with condiments, then went through each shelf, one by one. Nothing. Brushed my teeth. Mouthwash. Still, it endured. I finally swished VINEGAR for probably around two minutes, considering a trip to Wal-Mart and the honest hope that they carried some kind of acid if the vinegar didn't cut it. It did. One small victory for Motherhood Kind. Relieved, I wiped the sweat from my brow to discover... THE DEMONIC PUTRIDITY WAS UNDER MY FINGERNAILS TOO! (Enter blood-curdling scream here). p.s. I know that "putridity" is not technically a word, but as of 10/20/13, it was born. Take note, Webster's. I'll be using it again.
