Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Book Club

Tonight is Book Club. That's what we call it. Even though it's not mandatory that you actually read the book. Or any book for that matter. Heck, you don't even have to know where to get a book. Don't get me wrong, most of us read books - and sometimes they're even the book that was suggested for the actual book club monthly meeting, but mostly we're there for the wine. Which is necessary when trying to run away from the hecticness which is called Being A Mom.  It's pretty much the only place I can go that doesn't require a diaper bag and for that reason alone I refuse to miss it.

I used to fix dinner and make sure the girls' homework was done before I left, but now I just leave them to their own devices. I'd be a hypocrite if I forced them to eat a healthy dinner while I feasted on cucumber dill sandwiches and a chilled Riesling.

Being a memeber of a Book Club is mandatory for survival, especially if you're a working mother. Not just for the one night out a month, but also for the countless 'opportunities' it provides within the month:

"Honey, can you switch the loads of laundry? I'd do it, but I've really got to finish this book for Book Club."

"Why don't you and the kids just go ahead to your mother's - I'm in charge of coming up with the questions for Book Club and I haven't even started thinking about them yet."

"Sex? Right now? That truly sounds amazing -- it's just that I have so many chapters to read for Book Club... I guess sex will have to wait until I'm done. Darn Book Club and their ultra strict reading requirements."

Monday, May 24, 2010

The First Blowout

There we were, Big V and I, sitting peacefully side by side, grinning like maniacs because (1) The Bean was not at home, (2) Dotter was exhausted and taking a nap in her bedroom, and (3) Cletus was playing on the rug in front of us, blissfully unaware of our presence. Life was good. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Like the calm before the storm.

"HE POOPED!" V screamed. And yes, I mean screamed. Not spoke loudly. Not yelled. Not bellowed or shouted. He screamed. Perhaps even shrieked. "HE POOPED!" he screamed again, jumping up and at least three feet away from the baby. I stared at V as he stood pointing a shaking finger at the innocent little bundle of joy who was our son.


Sure enough... up the back of his diaper, down the side of the leg. Oh. My. God.

Suffice it to say, V and I do not handle emergency situations well.

"Do something!"
"Me? What about you?"
"Why me?"
"You've been through this before!"
"That's exactly why I shouldn't have to go through it again!"
"What? You're his mother - you should be there for him."
"I know I'm his mother. I had layers of flesh and fat and muscle sliced away in order to give birth to him, remember? The least you can do is go get him and clean him up!"
"Why don't you get him?"
"You're closer!"
"...by like four inches."
"Oh, so you're saying four inches isn't that much? Yeah, I don't think so either."

Thank God we have one of those spray hoses in the bathtub. They remind me of old people and I've always hated it, but it sure came in handy. We stripped the baby down and hosed him off as he laughed and giggled the entire time. Then I bleached the hell out of the bathtub because that was downright Dis. Gus. Ting!