Days Like Yesterday

We all have 'em. None of us wants 'em, but there you have it. They're going to come, anyway.

Let me begin by saying that Smidge is a puker. Not so much when he's sick, but when he's upset, he will cry hard enough that he pukes. Guaranteed. Our family rule has always been,

"You won't get what you want by throwing a fit, but if you feel you must throw a fit, you can do it in your room. When you're done, we'd love to have you join us again."

All of the children, at one time or another, have opted to go throw a good holy fit, and reemerge when it's out of their wee demonic systems. Smidge, however, seems to think it's a prerequisite for getting beyond the situation and moving into the acceptance stage. So he goes to his room and throws a fit. And pukes. Yeah, I'm lovin' carpet. The new family rule is going to be,

"You won't get what you want by throwing a fit, but if you feel you must throw a fit, you can do it in the bathroom. When you're done, we'd love to have you join us again."

The older boys, while wonderful and delightful in many, many ways are still, by a cruel twist of fate, brothers. And brothers will bicker. And the bickering will make mother's head spin. There's just nothing quite as exhilerating as trying to decipher the arguments that take place during the day.

For instance, the joy that is hearing the righteous indignation of a child screeching, "Don't you DARE stick your tongue out at me!" Only to find, moments later, that the offender was responding in kind to the tongue-sticking-out of the righteous one in the first place.

Or that the other brother began name calling (a serious no-no, even to the point that Zorak and I can no longer call one another our pet names for each other because the boys will jump in and remind us that it hurts feelings and causes dissention... admittedly, "buttloser" and "uberdork" may not be your typical pet names...) But I digress (that also happens a lot when you have children). The point being that the name calling began in earnest due to one child's deeply chilvarous desire to protect the feelings of - a door. Yes, a door. And by golly, I'll take my own brother down to defend this door! (Why...???)

By nine thirty yesterday morning, Smidge was out cold, having puked no less than twice in the throes of whatever psychic phenomena had gripped him. The boys had been informed that I will not read to them again until they decide to hold their own dialogue while I'm reading. Period. And I meant it (which, it's funny that they didn't believe me, because I do follow through. There was no story time last night at bedtime. Naturally, that's when they both pledged their fealty to the upright and noble tradition of "not being rude", but the time for blood oaths had passed and the mommy-gods could not be appeased. To bed! Now!)

And I'd planned to be out the door at ten to run errands! I'd planned a picnic! The day, in my head, was a much nicer day that it was turning out to be. The rest of the day, however, pretty much followed the starting pattern.

Lowe's took us almost two hours to pick up paint stirrers and six pieces of bullnose beading. Two hours! Why? Because you can't walk fast when you're crying and trying to puke. And mommy cannot at that point simply walk ahead of you and make you follow because she knows (just knows) that you will vomit and then slip in your own vomit and at least three employess - the ones you haven't been able to locate while you're looking for things - WILL arrive and wonder what horrible mother would leave her sick toddler all alone in a store like this, and call the police. (And if you think I'm going to put Linda Blair in the cart so I can be covered in pea soup while we walk, yeah right!) So mommy has to walk beside you with her hand outstretched while she attempts to thwart your evil plan and convince you that it's in your best interest (and best hope of making it to puberty) to stop. this. fit. now. (Who knew mommy could talk without opening her mouth? Cool. I think I'll puke now.)

My best creative attempt to salvage the day died at Cracker Barrel. Smidge didn't throw up in the restaurant. He sat and ate and chatted. The boys, seated apart from one another, behaved fabulously. There was much laughing and giggling and sharing of ideas. Everyone shared their food, and all of it was eaten. It was beautiful. The crying and fit throwing at Cracker Barrel was actually me. When it was time to go. I didn't want to get back in the car without backup.

But the day did end. I can't spin you a fairytale and say it ended well, but it did end. And nobody was exiled to the back yard. Nobody was disinherited. There was no blood, and consequently, no foul. In the grand scheme of things, that was a success. Not quite a good day, but a day from which we can rally and move on.

This morning has been banana nut granola, served warm. Hot chocolate and playtime. History is the white elephant in the living room, as it's normally a read-aloud. We'll see how this Mexican Standoff turns out. But I have hope, because the sun did come up, and the baby did sleep from nine thirty last night until four this morning, and so did I. There will be days like yesterday, but there's always the hope of today. It's good.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy