Note to Readers: A little bit different than my usual style of writing,
but too many "funny" stories, most in the course of one week,
bundled together for comic relief!
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"Can you watch our fish this weekend?" my neighbor text.
"I'll kill them!"
"No you won't. They'll be fine."
"Fish die!"
"They're super easy. They won't die."
She dropped them off on a Thursday afternoon, my friend Lindsay witnessed my frank reluctance to take them, and repeated, "Seriously, Katherine, I'll kill them. I'm not good at this. I'm just trying to keep my people alive. Fish die!"
Yet Katherine, in her chill swag replied again and again, "No really, there's nothing to it. They're easy. They won't die." She goes on to relay how it's actually quiet interesting and she uses is as a science lesson with her two year old and they've had the fish for months.
By Saturday, the container was cloudy. I texted her, worried and hesitant. Again, she reminds me I can't hurt them and theres nothing to it.
Right, nothing to it. One pinch of food, three times a day. One pre-made jug of water dowsed over the top in the evening. Simple as that. Idiot-proof.
Lie.
Monday Morning breakfast concludes and I peer into the murky water. One, two three, four... Where's five?!
Sunk.
Floating static on the grayed glass aquarium beads.
"I KILLED YOUR FISH!"
I text, frantic, shaking, sending photos of the stilled glofish, watching his last gulp for air. The other swirl at the top of the tank in slow movement, as if gasping for air.
She's shocked, "What?" Then turns into stringing texts to find out what could have possibly gone wrong. Eventually, realizing its dead and the others are dying, she calls another neighbor to come rescue them. I am in complete freak-out mode and hand off the plastic jar of floppy fish with fidgety, crazed movements and billowing remorse.
I can't shake the shame and humiliation of it for hours, the waves of distress entwined with guilt continue all day.
I'm just trying to keep my people alive here, ya`all.
But I killed the fish.
*July 4, 2016
~~~
Businessmen and wives gather about, a beautiful back-porch setting complete with cowboy caviar and plucking bottle tops. Each guy comes relaxed, rested with his friends, Bible-Study companions. The wives linger about, all joined by these mutual men, making talk and telling stories, drinking chilled Blue Moon or sparkling Pellegrinio, make-up fresh and jewelry on.
I laugh, engage in tales, then pause and look down.
Chunky, big, brown men's flip flops.
On my feet.
The ones I don't wear out. Not even to the grocery store.
You can't hide size 11 feet.
There I stood in a cheery, orange dress and gold shiny earrings, rubbing shoulders with the Charlotte class, in rubber Reefs.
So much for ditching the mom-do of the day.
A little lipstick can distract from dark circles, and one can conceal the nursing bra or plus-size Hanes, but one can't cover up those clunky, covered feet.
* July 7, 2016
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Hysteria screamed through the air. Anger layered with adrenaline filled her veins. Yanking, pulling, frantic at the door.
Bedtime at Harrisonwoods.
She hadn't napped all day, actually she hadn't napped since 21 months, so 40-minutes into this drama she was well-wound up, exceeded well-past tired, and continued to fling her frustration at the door.
She'd already tried the platonic, the "I'm hungry" "I'm thirsty" "I need to go potty" or the classic that always wins "I need to poop!" [One can sleep with a peed diaper, one can go to bed hungry, but yell that poop word and that's the real way to get mom or dad running!] But when the string of attention lines ran out, her lure to cross the door threshold turned up a notch.
She yanked on one end, I held the handle on the other.
Mark stood behind me, watching and learning the scene.
Then all of a sudden -- jiggle, jiggle, jiggle, -- piercing screech turned wail!
Sure enough, she electrocuted herself.
Pulled on the nightlight right next to the door and must have grabbed the metal spokes when it didn't release at first tug.
Not every kid learns to stay in bed with shock therapy.
*June 2016
~~~~~~
Chaos ravaged the house. Toys splattered the floor, from toy food to doll house parts to baby clothes and stickers, each room displayed havoc. Days-old cheese shreds, fruit loops and chip particles still smattered the dinner rug, left unattended once again. Even the sippy-cup container had been dumped and discarded on the pantry floor.
I was on the floor, pumping. Oh yes, the gloriousness of that escapade. On the carpet in my room. Because Judah wouldn't nurse. No, he would yank and wail instead, so here I was hooked up to the cow machine.
Meanwhile, he should have been sleeping in his crib, like other babies do. But instead he was crying, yelling for mom and attention within that fenced in cage.
Then a loud clunk clunk clunk followed by wham! wack! thud! and curling cries came from the stairs. I rush half-naked to look and there she lays in a heap at the bottom, sprawled out limbs beside the Dora car she had tried to drag up the stairs.
And this was just one five-minute segment of the day.
Tension consumed me; discipline my battleground; anxiety wrapped my chest. The afternoon drug on and I was like taunt spandex, stretched past my limit and now in tears. Frustrated, defeated, embarrassed at my parenting, lack of patience, quick temper, and fighting every breath with my children. It was almost 4 o'clock so I chucked the kids in the car and headed to the Y.
In a huff, I checked them into childcare, a nervous wreck about leaving them there for the first time, worried and wrought in mind and emotions, but nonetheless I swatted the stickers on their back, and turned around.
Black dress and flip flops.
I wore a black dress and flip flops to work out at the Y.
What was I thinking?!
Oh wait, I wasn't. All I was thinking is we were not going to all make it through the afternoon alive, or at least without stormy, heavy regret. And I had enough of that already.
So in my stupor to get out of it all, I had worn a black dress and flip flops to the Y.
Classic.
At least that explains my numb toes on the walking track.
* June 12
~~~~~~~
I was standing juggling Judah, telling the above stories to friends, them laughing about the craziness of actually killing the fish and how it was so funny that I even warned her. I'd wiped up the last feedings reflux from my shirt and shorts and let the stink settle in the fabric. Finally, friend time.
Then I looked down. I know that face, that stance. A mother can recognize it from across any room. The I'm-peeing-my-pants-right-now face. Only the pants included the dripping to the round puddle on the wood floor, expanding as I spoke.
I sucked in my breath and walked her to the bathroom, leaving Emily to disinfect the floor. Dress left on, bow still intact, she walked out cleaned-up and comando to finish the playdate.
Picking back up on my stories, somewhere between the aquarium fiasco and the YMCA scene, hands flailing in dramatics, I heard Megan say, "Is that...?" she pauses mid-statement and my eyes follow hers, answering the rhetoric, "Oh no!"
Poop.
Two great big logs laying right by my feet, my daughters feet, on the carpet.
Horrified, I grab papertowel in shock and pick up the remains, ushering her back to the bathroom. I'm wordless, wondering what to do, how long to stay, or how to just pack up my children and ego and go. We come back out, bracing myself with a smile to hide the sting.
The visiting mom remarks, "Wow, that was really well-formed..."
What else does one say in the moment of mortification?
*June 14
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Seriously, in this stage of life, it's all I can do to keep my people alive.
But I did kill the fish.
