I realize the title of this post and my history of twisted sarcasm have probably led you to suspect that I’m about to tell a dark saga involving tyrannical children and poop, but I’m actually not. I’m actually going to tell you a happy Christmas story, as indicated. Or Hanukkah. Or Kwanzaa. Or every-other-day if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness.

Whatever.

It’s happy. And it’s Christmastime (for us). Therefore, it’s a happy Christmas story.

For your soul.

A couple weeks ago, Rocket, Georgia and I were in a restaurant. It was lunchtime and the place was pretty full. While waiting for our food, I was doing the usual follow-Georgia-around-the-restaurant-because-she’ll-only-sit-in-the-high-chair-for-12-and-a-half-minutes-and-I-need-to-save-it-for-when-the-food-actually-comes routine, which involves, of course, her stomping around the restaurant with great determination (though without destination), and me following, fielding glares from people when she falls on the floor and they look at me like “what kind of mother are you, letting your toddler touch that dirty ground.”

And with my eyes I say “bite me you judgmental childless bat.”

That’s not what I meant.

Yes it is. Because anybody who’s ever had a kid knows that most of them, at one point, learn to walk, and learning to walk involves FALLING, and falling kids aren’t interested in holding their mother’s hands. Do you know I’ve received at least 3 comments from strangers telling me I should hold my kid’s hand? Whatever.

Why am I always off topic?

So we’re walking around at an alarmingly rapid pace when all of a sudden Georgia stops dead in her tracks. Just stops completely and fixates on a very old, frail, kind-looking man sitting next to his wife. He was smiling at Georgia.

Georgia’s face was serious and focused, like she was trying to understand him. She then did something I have never seen her do to any stranger. Keeping her eyes on his, she put both hands up in the universal “pick me up” gesture. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it.

With some effort he pushed back his chair and turned around toward her. And with shaking hands this old man reached down and lifted up my daughter as she walked confidently into his arms. With determination that matched hers, he struggled to set her in his lap, facing him. She then, without hesitation, rested her head on his chest with all the calmness and serenity I’ve ever seen in her.

By now many people in the restaurant were watching, struck by a pretty interesting turn of events.

He patted her back and I felt like I was witnessing something that mattered, though I couldn’t figure out how. I didn’t say a word.

She lifted her head, looked up at him intently, then rested it on his chest again.

His face glowed, his eyes lit up with joy and pride and delight. They fell shut for a moment, as if he were trying to hold this moment completely in his mind.

She looked up into his face one more time, turned, and crawled off his lap, then kept stomping along her way.

It was one of those things in life that is so unexpected and inexplicable you roll it over and over in your head but can’t make sense of it. Why that guy? Why then? Why so much affection? What was her draw to this particular man?

When I told Mac the story he said something that rocked my soul.

He said “I wonder if he is about to die, and Georgia related to him, you know, like two people on either end. Maybe she knew he was like her, close to the source but on the other end.”

Now I’m not stupid enough to start talking about the “G” word on my blog. (God, not Georgia). I will only say that since having my first kid, it’s been apparent to me that young children are tuned into something that most adults have missed for a very, very long time – for whatever reason.

Maybe it’s just an incredible presence – an ability to stay right in the moment, all the time, in complete openness to whatever comes and where, evidently, miraculous gestures of love occur.

Where old men get hugs from toddlers they don’t know and whole restaurants get to see two complete strangers connect in love, on a level of existence that doesn’t make sense to most of us.

A moment of compassion and acceptance and truth. A moment of embrace. A very old, shaking man, and a bright, energetic toddler – a child who paused and took a moment to see him, see all of him, see his soul. And she saw that it needed something. A hug, perhaps, particularly.

And so, she gave it to him.

It was as if he was an old friend.

When he left, he patted Georgia’s head gently and she grinned and he looked at me with a knowing smile. There was a tear in his eye.

Perhaps they both understood.

What does she see?

You know what I should be doing? School work.

But, I’m not.

You know why?

Because I need to write the most important post I’ll probably ever write in my whole life.

Check it out.

In 3 years, when Georgia is just four, probably going to preschool and really not needing me quite so much, and I consequently have a relapse of the terminal disease known among medical journals as “I Really Really Really Think I Need a New Baby,” please remind me of the following few moments. No really, please.

Before we get into this, let me just say that when the time comes, you must be strong in the face of this insidious disease. I will tell you I really really need a newborn, and we can totally afford it and if I don’t have it my life will seem incomplete and I’ll regret it forever.

I will suddenly, defying all reason, only remember the most glorious moments spent with my children as infants. I will tell you I loved the toddler stage. If I hold your baby, I may get a little teary-eyed in joyful nostalgia. I will stare at pregnant women with a splash of longing in my eyes, forgetting completely that I FUCKING HATE BEING PREGNANT. Babies will appear radiant to me in their loveliness, like handfuls of sunlight woven together with silken threads of moonlight. I just threw up a little in my mouth.

So despite all this, you must look me in the eye and tell me these things. Please. I’m relying on you. You are my only hope of not having another damn kid.

Remind me of…

1. Trying to take a shower. Remind me of the fact that I have to hold the sliding shower door shut with one hand the entire time I’m showering lest the toddler enter with me, drenching herself. Remind me of the screams and wails of despair echoing in the bathroom as she bemoans her rejected state, and I try to shower with one hand.
2. Changing the diaper of a 15-month old. Remind me of the squirming. Of the hand that shoots down like lightening to grab the poop. Just outta nowhere…BOOM!!! Shit everywhere. Remind me of that.
3. The batshit crazy hour each night. Remind me of that hour each day when the toddler is too tired to do ANYTHING – even just stand there motionless – but not tired enough to sleep. Remind me of holding her on my hip while I try to do everything else for the other two kids. Cook. Eat. Laundry. Etc. Remind me of the inability to set her down for even three freaking seconds because…because why? Because who the fuck knows why. Because toddlers are lunatics. Remind me of that.
4. The toddler path of destruction. Remind me of the way she spends pretty much every waking moment destroying things – over-turning, pulling down, shoving off, shoving in, dumping, hitting. Nonstop destruction. Nonstop work for me. Not for neatness, but for life. To keep her from injuring herself. Remind me of that.
5. And finally, the perfectly timed, toddlers-must-be-in-tune-with-the-inner-workings-of-the-universe wake up moment. You know what I’m talking about, right? That moment when you are drifting off to sleep, finally. That giant cloud of relief spread out beneath you, begging you to fall, completely, into vast lovely sleep. And you’re drifting, settling down into sweet relaxation, ah bliss. And just as you’re about to fall into that bliss…you hear it. The grumble. The whine. The wahhhhhhhh. And you realize she ain’t going back to sleep and once again, you aren’t getting a decent night’s sleep and you will spend tomorrow in hazy exhaustion.  Again. You roll out of bed. Stumbling. Cursing the whole deal.

Swearing you’re never going to have another fucking baby.

Friends, remind me of that.

You see?

The most important post I’ll ever write.

Do you people think I’m kidding? Because I’m not.

Don’t fail me here guys.

Maybe we should start a support group for this. We could get together for meetings every week and invite people with toddlers. Then just watch. And REMEMBER.

Anybody interested?

There’s really no appropriate introduction for this, except to say that, for funsies, I decided to create a few bumper stickers. You know, things I would put on my car, were I not afraid of getting mowed down by some irate stranger.

By the way, if you are easily offended or sensitive or believe some things are sacred and should just not be made fun of openly on the internet, I suggest you skip this post. No really. I warned you…I’ll give you a chance to think about it…

Still here?

Good. I knew you’d stay.

That’s why we’re friends.

******************

********************

**********************

************************

*****************

**************

*********************

*********************

******************

Okay seriously. Should we print one of these?

So that didn’t take long. We already have material for a new volume of Idiot Surfing.

Today we’re featuring a Facebook post that asked people to complete the sentence “I suspected I was a crunchy parent when…” And as you can imagine, there are some real winners.

Please note: I have nothing against crunchy parenting. In fact, on paper, I’m pretty damn granola myself. But doesn’t it seem that the crunchies are by far the most judgmental parents? Maybe I’m wrong, but it appears that there’s an air of pretension surrounding the attachment-parenting thing – which seems weird, doesn’t it? Hypocritical? Since we”re supposed to be the “enlightened,” “accepting” ones? Ah, the complexities.

Whatever. Who gives a shit. Let’s make fun of ‘em. Here we go. I suspected I was a crunchy parent when…

“…my daughter looked in horror when she a woman feeding her child “poison” in a bottle!” – Really, lady? Really? Poison? Effing POISON? Could you just try for one single moment to enter the realm of the reasonable? POISON? Rat killer is poison. Chemicals are poison. Napalm is poison. Formula (you self-important small-minded jackass) is NOT poison. What if that woman can’t breastfeed? What if the baby can’t breastfeed? What if the baby was adopted? ARGH. It’s people like you that make me a closeted crunchy mother.

“…I cried at the mere mention of giving my baby formula.” – Yes. It’s one of the great tragedies of the world. War, child abuse, cancer, and formula feeding.

“…I didn’t want to pass my baby around and let others hold him.” – Hey dumbshit. That makes you paranoid and possessive, not crunchy. The crunchies aren’t afraid of germs. They love germs. Germs are organic. Duh.

“… I decided to breastfeed … co-bathe…child-led parent.” – What the hell is “co-bathing?” Are you telling me that each and every night at 7pm you strip down and get in the bath with your baby? You have too much time on your hands, that’s all. And “child-led parenting”? Holy hell, that’s a good idea. Here’s what “child-led” parenting would look like in my house:

Me, to my 5-year-old son: “Hey Rocket, what are you doing?”

Rocket: “I’m putting my penis in a funnel.”

Me: “But you’re supposed to be eating dinner.”

Rocket: “This is more fun. I’m doing this instead.”

Me, being a “child-led parent:” “Well okay, then. Does it fit?”

[2 hours pass]

Rocket: “Mama, I’m hungry!”

Me: “Okay, go eat the dinner you didn’t eat 2 hours ago. By the way, what are you doing with the cat?”

Rocket: “Oh, I tied her paws together with pipe cleaners and stuck her in this pillow case and now I’m going to tow her around behind my dump truck. She likes it.”

Me, being a “child-led parent”: “Very nice, honey! Excellent creativity. I support you in your ideas and free-play, so have fun and, if possible my sweet bundle of lovely, try not to kill our kitty, mmmmkay?”

(Okay so I have no idea what “child-led” parenting is for real, but it sounds bad. I mean shit, if kids could parent themselves, why would they need parents?)

“… our favorite music is the sound of the wind in the trees.” – Yeah, hate to break it to you, but the sound of wind in the trees is not music. It’s the sound of the wind, in.the.trees. That is all.

“…I can’t travel because I don’t have my refrigerator and pantry with all organic fresh foods.” – Oh sweet Jesus where do I begin? You’re just an idiot. Just an idiot. There is nothing else to say. No way to expand. Except I should mention that your kids are undoubtedly going to hate you, partly for sheltering them from the world because it couldn’t provide “organic fresh foods,” but mainly just because you’re an idiot.

The end.

______

While waiting for the next edition of Idiot Surfing, perhaps you could donate 2 clicks to a super worthy cause. There are only four more days. And then, since I’ll probably never be nominated for anything again, I’ll leave you alone forever. Well, on this particular topic.

I have a real toddler.

My first two kids weren’t “real” toddlers. Evidently they went through the toddler stage, but they didn’t really ACT like toddlers. They just kind of hung out. I’ve never bought those drawer or door locks or done any “toddler-proofing” (what a stupid expression).

This one, though? This Georgia character? She’s the real deal.

And holy crap my friends, this is a lot of work.

I spend most of my time averting disaster.

If she can reach it, she pulls it over. On her head. On the floor. On the cat.

If she’s in the bathroom, she’s inspecting the toilet bowl brush.

Or the trash.

She’s climbed into the dishwasher. Onto the kitchen island. Attempted entrance into the fireplace. And will leave through any opened doors.

Gets stuck under tables. Gets inside bags, baskets and boxes.

Wedges herself into all accessible small spaces. Then screams.

Topples head-first into items she’s attempting to scale, such as, the bathtub.

Climbs stairs.

In short, if there is an item in the room that is disgusting and messy or has the ability to choke her or cause some other grievous bodily harm or threaten her immediate well-being, she makes a damn beeline for it and if I’m not RIGHT THERE, there will be disaster.

Not maybe. For sure.

Everything I do I have to do it quickly, because there is a toddler on my tail. She’s gotta be RIGHT up in my business, all the time. If I’m unloading the dishwasher, she’s standing next to me grabbing shit out of it, preferably knives.

And what is she some sort of power crawler? She’s NEVER IN THE SAME PLACE for more than 3 seconds. She’s there. I look away. She’s GONE.

And then I’m bolting around “Georgia!?” (as if she’s some sort of dog that comes when called), finally finding her wrapped in the computer power cords and grinning at me like “What?”

Taking a shower. Always a treat.

Three to five minutes during which I leave the toddler unattended. I usually resort to letting her play with a roll of toilet paper or some other weirdness, because at least that way she’s not engaging in potentially life-threatening behavior and it’s a mess I know and anticipate, which somehow makes it easier.

I guess.

There is really no way to make toddlerhood easier.

This shit pretty much just bites.

Except for the fact that they’re freaking adorable and are still babies most of the time, cuddling and being fat and babbling and laughing and kissing and perfect.

Well, when they’re not eating the cat’s food.

Or pulling books off the shelves.

Or crawling into the refrigerator.

For the tenth time today.

Because your older kids just can’t seem to figure out the whole refrigerator-door shutting phenomenon.

Shiiiiiiiiit.

Let’s just look at a picture. To forget.

Or maybe, to remember.

"Who, me?"