There are times when I am sad that Little K is growing up so quickly. My heart doesn’t seem to understand that more than five years have passed since my tiny little premature baby came into this world. I cried last summer as I held him and sang to him one last time in his rocking chair before selling it to a family who really needed it. I wept as I watched his baby clothes and nursery bedding slowly disappear at a garage sale I held with my close friend Ames (I was so thankful for her friendship and laughter – and margaritas – that day). It seems impossible that he has somehow turned into this rambunctious, super-hero obsessed, little boy.
Though he is growing, he is still my sweet little guy – just the other day, he suddenly said, “I hope the family who moved into our old house is happy there.” He is excelling in school (with the exception of some fine motor skills), and his teacher reported that he is kind to others unless he is standing up for himself. He is becoming more coordinated and can even do box jumps better than me (not that my box jumps are anything impressive).
That being said, parenting is challenging. Little K is head strong, a little mouthy, and quite sarcastic (I wonder where he gets that from). He has no filter, which I love; and is constantly talking, which I don’t always love. I have been concerned that I am getting early-onset Alzheimer’s Disease because I can’t seem to complete a thought or a sentence and I am continually saying the wrong thing – then it dawned on me that my brain is only able to pay attention to a portion of my thoughts, because it is constantly processing the perpetual outpouring of words from his tiny chatterbox mouth. I don’t think he stops chattering to breathe and I’m beginning to become concerned about his oxygen levels. I realize that there will come a time when he will turn into a sulking teenager who refuses to tell me about his day – I’m just looking for a happy medium.
Last week, I had an appointment with my chiropractor. Before I went into the exam room, I asked Little K if he needed to use the restroom. “Nope.” Okay great, let’s go on back. Fifteen minutes later, after my time on the roller table (where do I get one of those for home use?), I was lying face down on the adjustment table and Little K announced he had to use the bathroom. I showed him across the hall, and resumed my prone-facing position. Then I hear the screams.
I ran into the bathroom to see my five year old pee-soaked and bawling. There was piss everywhere – all over his clothes, on his socks, in his boots, in a two-foot circle on the floor. He was panicked to the point that he then started screaming, “I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding!” I’m not sure where the correlation between peeing and bleeding out happens, but I do understand anxiety and that the brain does weird stuff in moments of alarm. The walls in that office are paper thin, so I’m sure all of the other patients were enjoying the symphony of crying, complete with the murmurs of a frustrated mother. As I was pushing the pee around into not quite as deep of a puddle in an attempt to clean up his mess (seriously, can businesses start stocking a more absorbent tri-fold paper towel?), I debated whether I would make Little K ride home naked or in urine-soaked clothes. Thankfully, the kind doctor brought in a roll of towels with a more appropriate level of absorbency, a trash bag for the wet clothes, and a spare pair of shorts. I helped dress a now commando Little K (whose tiny butt still wears a size 4T pants) into those men’s size medium shorts – I’m not complaining, they were dry and didn’t smell of pee. After rolling the waist approximately 9 times, I instructed Little K to keep hold of the waistband and to come quietly with me.
|*I do not own the rights to this image|
Back in the exam room, I made him sit on his coat on the floor, finished getting my adjustment and got the hell out of there. After I apologized profusely to the receptionist (who also happens to be a friend), I told her I’d call back to reschedule and I turned to pick up little K to carry him to the car. But instead of standing still and holding the waistband of his shorts as instructed, he was carefully inspecting the fascinating drawstring of said shorts, which were now around his knees leaving his bare ass and wiener exposed for all the world to see. “Pull those up!!!” I shouted. I grabbed the shorts, yanked them up, and carried him to the car; all while wishing that I hadn’t given up alcohol for Lent.
As if that wasn’t enough, the same day he dropped an entire cup of Sprite in a manner that made it explode all over the walls, carpet, table, and dogs.
In the moments during the whole pee debacle, I failed at parenting. I know that I should have told him that it was fine and accidents happen. And I have been that mom – many times. Remember when he pissed at the library? I was Calm Mom that day. But last week’s accident came after a year of no accidents and several years of being potty trained. I no longer carry a change of clothes for him, I don’t keep wipes in my purse. I shouldn’t have gotten upset and demanded to know how this could have happened and why he waited so long to go (for the record, he couldn’t get his coat unzipped in time). I was mad that he didn’t want to stop playing with that dumb Mr. Potato Head and go when I gave him the chance prior to the appointment. I sucked at keeping my cool.
In his defense, I remember having accidents as a kid because I was too busy playing and didn’t want to stop to do something boring like going to the bathroom. Also, I always remember to be thankful in every body-fluid situation that isn’t a painting rendered with shit.
|Nice PJ selection, buddy.|
Easter cannot come soon enough, because this mommy needs another drink. Thank you for keeping me In Good Company.
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