When I was writing yesterday’s post, I was pretty sure there was a happy ending. I got to the end and there was little or no happiness to be found. Then last night I remembered the reason I wanted to tell you about all the stupid outcomes of my procrastination and general disregard for intelligent courses of action: There is one singular incident in which this character flaw saved the day.
I have been meaning to ween James for awhile now. My general rule at the beginning was that I would stop when he could ask for it in a full grammatically correct sentence. We’re not quite there, but getting dangerously close. But, staying true to my parenting style, I’ve put it off because it would involve willpower and other things that are not in my genetic code.
When James split his face open, the first thing I did was call J.D. There needs to be at least one rational adult present when blood loss exceeds what a regular sized band-aid can handle. The second thing I did was latch James’ screaming face, which then ceased to scream. Every now and then, he would pop off and tell me he was bleeding. In case I’d forgotten. By the time J.D. got home, James was all ready to show off his wound and give a live demonstration as to how he got it.
Tip: A small child smeared in blood is a quick ticket through triage.
Anyway, breast milk contains natural pain killers FYI. It’s a medicated smoothie on tap, and the only reason it was on tap is because I PROCRASTINATED. So there.
I procrastinate – often because I’m lame, but often because my brain fell out with the placenta.
Last month, J.D. and I are shopping downtown. We’re in line to pay for something and J.D. tells me that our parking meter is probably going to expire soon and explicitly tells me to feed the meter. I wander off, mostly likely with the intention of feeding the meter. Somewhere between point A and B, I buy ski poles and board shorts instead. Later, after admiring my purchases, J.D. tells me we should hurry back to the car because he just saw the parking meter guy walk by and that extra quarter I stuck in the meter is probably going to expire soon.
It is very difficult to explain the ticket under our wiper to J.D. Yes, I remember him telling me to feed the meter. No, I do not remember how that didn’t happen. But, look! If you pay it the very next business day, it’s only $10 instead of $25! Then I stick it in the glove box feeling pretty all right, because what a deal!
Let us skip forward four weeks. I am downtown running errands being incredibly productive and efficient. I am looking for loose change to feed the parking meter. I check the glove box. Whoops. But! I am only a block and a half from City Hall. Look at me, not procrastinating! I will pay this $25 ticket right here and now.
The City Hall clerk reads over the ticket. “Well,” she says. “It went to court this morning. That will be $55, please.”
That parking spot was definitely a 50 cent parking spot. It was maybe a $10 parking spot. $25 was really pushing it. I can say, with absolute certainty, that it was NOT a $55 parking spot.
So right there, in the Whitehorse City Hall, I make a solemn vow to never be stupid again.
Yesterday afternoon, J.D. is checking our credit card statements and he notices an 11.99 charge for something called e-music. He asks me about it and it sounds familiar but ya know, I really couldn’t say…
Turns out I signed up for a monthly music service -three months ago. I vaguely remember giving out my credit card info with the intention of grabbing free music and cancelling the account before being billed. How clever. Unfortunately I grabbed no music and promptly forgot to cancel. I have a feeling that the world’s economic growth depends on people like me. Good-bye recession! I would like to mention, though, that I signed up for this BEFORE I made the no-more-stupid vow.
This is the part where I thank J.D. for his tolerance and forgiveness. And disposable income.
me: What are you making James?
James: Soup!
me: What’s in your soup?
James: Chickpeas!
me: What else?
James: Pancakes!
me: What are you making James?
James: Soup!
me: What’s in your soup?
James: Salt!
me: What else?
James: Salt!
Oscar: three, four, six, nine!
James: one, two, lots!
James clearly inherited his math gene from me.
I never thought I would be a “playgroup” kind of mom but I am more than a playgroup kind of mom. I am a “plan the rest of my life around the playgroup because they have coffee that I didn’t have to make and stimulation that I didn’t have to organize” kind of mom. I will return to this important concept after I take you for a drive down the road of things unrelated.
J.D., James, and I are planning a West Coast Amtrak adventure for the spring break because it is the very last opportunity that we have to travel with James without him counting as a person with a bum big enough to warrant its own seat. We have milked that small bum status for all it’s worth. When we return, four days before James’ second birthday, he will have clocked 27 flights, several scary Mexican van rides, a cruise, and an undetermined number of train hours.
Aside: I have this horrible habit of announcing our grand plans to the world and then sheepishly retracting those grand plans when we realize they are a step or two outside of reality. For example, I told everyone we were going to travel Europe for our honeymoon. Then I told them we were just going to Ireland. Then I told them we were just going to drive across Canada. We ended up road tripping Saskatchewan. So I want to include a disclaimer here that our West Coast Amtrak adventure could end up as a public transit tour around Vancouver.
J.D. and I were researching a few things in San Diego and we came across THIS: Java Mama. It’s a cafe in San Diego that caters specifically to mamas and caregivers. Namely: Coffee that you don’t have to make and stimulation that you don’t have to organize. EVERY SINGLE DAY.
It’s an American Dream I believe in.
All right, one tot has gone home and we’ve got two simultaneous naps going on but the morning has has totally juiced me. Thus, I can’t remember what I was going to say about this photo. Other than: “Why yes, he has been injured in the recent past. Why do you ask?”
So instead, I am going to bring you into my Wednesday morning world for a few moments.
I have a few more things to say about this but they will only get said today if I manage to procure a three way nap. Happy Wednesday!
On Wednesday mornings, this is my brood. Three boys less than or almost equal to two. I bring Oscar and James and watch them all at Elijah’s house (middle) and I make Elijah’s mum, Faith, think that it’s because I’d like to make her life easier. But really, if you knew the number of nanoseconds it takes for these tanks to destroy a living room, you’d call me on my self serving motives.
Banana Split update: He is totally unaware that anything unusual happened yesterday. People keep asking him about his chin and he’s all, will you people lay off! Go stare at your own chins! It’s too bad, he really could have milked this one.
James fell off a trunk this morning and split his chin on the edge of a plant pot. There’s nothing like profuse amounts of blood and four stitches to increase the quality of one’s parenting.
James, you may have and/or do whatever you want for the rest of your life. Here, start by watching television all afternoon so I can post bloody photos of you on the internet. Someone should give me a badge or something.
He’s okay. It was a nasty gash but it should heal up all right. The nurse told us chin and eye brow splits are a rite of passage for little boys.
Many thanks to all those who told me to lock James in a dark room while he screams. It would probably work if my will power were more like iron and less like a dead fish. Our method is now to sit and guard the end of his bed while he does gymnastics until he eventually passes out. This takes approximately way longer than it should but oh well. Free time to ourselves in the evenings was starting to get boring. Remember how I told you about James’ jovial middle of the night visits to our room? Well, they still happen, but they’re less jovial and more WHY CAN YOU NOT DECODE WHAT IT IS I’M SCREAMING ABOUT!? YOU MUST NOT BE MY REAL PARENTS! On that note, here’s something totally unrelated:
James’ great aunt sent him a team Canada hockey jersey. It’s very nice and because of the collective efforts of J.D.’s extended family, I’ll be getting up at 4:30 a.m. for the rest of my life. The helmet is a bicycle helmet purchased by J.D. (with great pride) directly from a bicycle store. J.D. came very close to telling James hockey doesn’t actually exist when James started referring to it as his hockey helmet.
