(Please note that the French thing is too confusing for Amurrikuns to keep up with and also tend to be less funny than alliteral titles such as seen above. Therefore the French titles are hereby discontinued.)
I have two kids and they have friends. With friends come the following things:
1. Weird parents
2. Infectious diseases
3. An overabundance of birthday parties
Today we will be discussing #3, with a little bit of #2 thrown in for good measure.
It seems everyone gets busy around Labor Day and decides to pop out a kid or four between the months of May and June. This means my Octobabies are often the only kids in their age brackets that don't have summer birthdays. Which is cool, but it also means we have about eleventy billion cake and ice cream cookouts to attend every weekend during the summer. (A tip and a confession in one: Kids' gifts are expensive and I find the best place to go is the Dollar Tree for gifts for kids ages 2 and up. Go ahead and thank me for the idea. Don't be mad if you suspect you have been Dollar Tree'd by me; I give excellent presentation with gifts and you have my permission to shop at the Dollar Tree for my kids too.)
On our first birthday of the summer season, we attended B1's first friend's third birthday party. It was held at the little girl's house and it was great. Lots of kids, good food on the grill, cake so sugary I almost had an aneurysm. If that's even possible, and let's face it, I don't know if it is because I am not a neurosurgeon.
Anyway. All the parents were hanging out, all the kids were screaming happy terrors through the hallways, and I was enjoying myself knowing that although Husby wasn't there to help keep up with our ankle biters that there were plenty of kids to distract them from trouble.
(Yes, those smiley faces are meant to be partygoers. Don't hate, I'm tired and it's late.)
Then I realized something.
Something terrifying.
Something paralyzing.
Something gut wrenching.
B2 - my son - was silent.
This meant trouble, as B2 neverneverneverneverneverneverNEVER shuts up. This kid is a walking megaphone with an uncanny predilection for absolute destruction. When he bangs on our sliding glass patio door with his wooden hammer, screaming in utter joy and simultaneously eating a piece of cardboard from Christ-knows-where, he is truly in his element.
My mommy migraine tingling, I went on high alert. I looked high. I looked low. I looked outside. I asked other adults. Nobody knew where he was.
And then, I knew.
There was only one place he could be.
I rushed to the guest bathroom.
And there was my son. Dripping wet. Elbow deep in our gracious hosts' toilet. Holding a Barbie doll, equally wet, and he grinned proudly at me.
I don't remember much after this. Just that the water in the bowl was yellow and ohgodyellowwateritsyellowohgodwhynowhywhywhymustdisinfectsmallversionofmyhusbandimmediately!
So let's just recap:
1. I lost my kid
2. I found my kid playing in a toilet
3. THE TOILET WAS FULL OF URINE
4. This means some guest at the party used the bathroom, didn't flush, left the seat up, and left the door open...IN A HOUSE CRAWLING WITH TODDLERS.
B2 was cleaned up in no time, but being the naively optimistic individual I am I failed to pack an extra outfit, so he left that party in an old Kennedy Space Center tee shirt and a pair of toddler girls' shorts.
This has resulted in my chasing after B2 at every party, guarding the bathroom doors like a Doberman to make sure everyone closes the door behind them. I have even had to confess my son's sick addiction to rooms full of people to nicely request that they remember to "flush, shut, and close" after using the restroom at another friend's party. It is not a good time for me these days.
But oh, it doesn't end there.
My son's fascination with hazardous waste is not strictly confined to toilets.
He plays in his diapers.
And he likes it.
Apparently my youngest is a tactile individual - meaning he likes the way certain things feel in his hands. He likes to squeeze noses, pull hair, slap his sister and squish his own feces between his fingers like mudpies.
I just can't even continue. You get the picture now.
As always entertaining, my dear! You. Are. Gifted. Carry on. I <3 You!
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