Reason #229 – I almost let my child drown

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As ever, I wish I was joking.

But this is no joke.

Woo hoo pool!

We were invited to a pool party, and (as ever) I forgot to get a present, so we stopped on the way and got something nice for the birthday girl. Trust me, this is relevant to the drowning.

We arrived kinda early to the party, and there were a few kids in the pool and a few parents sitting in the shade. I changed C into his trunks, doused him in SPF 5000, felt virtuous and responsible, and then I let him join the kids that were already splashing in what seemed a pretty shallow pool.

I think my exact words were “you can go to the pool now, my love.”

Having done all this, I started digging in my huge, heavy and chaotic handbag for a pen with which to write C’s name on the gift tag of the present we’d just bought.

Then I saw the hostess fly past me. Girlfriend can sprint.

Then I saw two dads running towards the pool too.

Then I found the pen, and only THEN I turned my attention to what was going on at the pool.

I saw:

Our hostess, fully dressed, jumping into the pool…

…and fishing up a kid who was flailing in the middle of it…

…(holy crap, the middle of the pool is chest deep!?!?)…

…and as our hostess held up this kid who’d been drowning in the freakishly deep middle of the pool, I realized that it was my child.

MY child.

C had jumped right into the deep end, which amply covered him, and was for all effects and purposes drowning, while I looked for a pen 5 meters away.

Not just that, but he was spotted AND rescued by another person. A person who was not me.

Because I hadn’t even noticed he was drowning. Or thought to at least check how deep the pool was. Or even glanced in the kid’s direction as he entered it.

C bounced back in exactly 3 seconds, and enjoyed the rest of the party like the party animal he is. But sweet mother of pearl, I can’t stop thinking about what might *knock wood ptui ptui* have happened.

Ladies and gent, I think we have a new low.

Reason #228 – I badmouth my estranged ex

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If you’ve ever been through a divorce/separation/breakup in which kids were involved, or seen it happen in someone else’s life, or heck, even if you’ve merely watched it portrayed on TV, you will know Rule #1:

DO NOT BADMOUTH THE EX IN FRONT OF THE KIDS

 

This means that is is ethically superior to burn your ex’s clothes, sell their Boxster for $1, give away their vintage record collection and spread rumours about their having weird-colored spots “down there”* than to say something less than complimentary about your ex in front of the kids.

I am a child of divorce, and I totally understand why it must be so.

Also, burning clothes is a lot more fun.*

Since I am a child of divorce and I am genetically predisposed to fail at marriage know why it must be so, I have made huge, monumental, beyond-human efforts not to badmouth the Dane if there is a chance the little pitcher will hear me. Not that there’s all that bad to say, let’s be honest, but if a a girl hasn’t got a right to bitch about an ex, then what right does she have?

Thank you.

I’ve had a rough year like you wouldn’t believe, and now that I’m starting to see some light my body is shutting down on me. It’s like it’s saying: “OK, we outran the hungry lions, leapt out of the burning skyscraper and swam out of the shark-infested pit. Now I’m gonna make sure you stay out of trouble, if I have to kill you myself.” Guess that’s why it will never be the brains of the operation.

So this morning I dragged my miserable, stiff-jointed, aching self to the doctor’s office doing a walk that would have made Jack Sparrow proud, and I was given a shot, happy pills, even happier pills, a shoulder to cry on, and a week off work to “look after myself”. Doctor’s orders! And since I’m still in mega-frugal-mode I went for some low-anxiety retail therapy at the local thrift shop instead of spendier options like cocktails or a massage, which in hindsight wouldn’t have landed me in trouble. 

Still, I got a lot of really cool tops (one is 100% silk!) and spent only $40. SCORE.

C found ways to entertain himself in the thrift shop, which mainly involved lugging my shopping trolley around and jumping out from racks of clothes to scare me. He already has a strong (if slightly misguided) fashion sense, so I started asking for his opinion on my potential purchases to try to discourage the hiding-and-jumping-out thing, which was doing a number on my already shot nerves.

The dog brings it all together, Tim.

“Hey Bubs, what about this sweater? It’s great! Do you like it?”

“Hmm… no.”

“Look! What a cool top! I’m going to try it on!”

“No, I don’t like it.”

“Oooh, this is a great dress! What do you think?”

“Naah.”

And then, with no warning at all (C wasn’t being rude, I wasn’t even remotely mad), I slipped and fell into this telescoping montage of long-past nahs and bahs and mehs and shrugs and I just snapped:

“PETER, PAUL AND MARY, YOU ARE JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!”

Ack.

It’s not like I dropped a soap opera bomb and hollered “Jesujalbérto NO es tu verdadero padre!”** in a Venezuelan accent, and even if I had C probably wouldn’t have heard or understood it, but I know I said it and I feel like shit. Because I am a child of divorce and I know why it must be so.

I failed rule #1.

I failed my young child (who deserves better in soooo many ways) and I failed young me (who also, but hey), and I even failed my preternaturally-unenthusiastic-but-otherwise-eminently-decent ex.

Damn.

Where are those happy pills?

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Comments are open for advice, condolences, and contact details of your hot single friends (especially if they like fiery Latinas with adorable baggage.) Because like it or not, mama is back in the market. And I have some great new tops that need wearing.

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* Honest, I’ve never ever done any of these things ever. My only act of mild revenge was to use his credit card to buy some Kindle books, and it was over faster than you can say Hunger Games. I may be a crap mom, but I am a highly ethical person. No, really. Stop smirking. NOW.

** “Jesus Albert is NOT your real father”, a soap opera classic of all times. I think it’s against Venezuelan law not to include that line at least once in any given soap. And a character called Jesus Alberto. Who is not your  real father. But I could be wrong.

Reason #227 – “Hi, I am Bad Mom and I am an addict”

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As I was worrying this morning about having exactly $5 in my bank account, and no gas in the car or food in the fridge, it came to me: I have become a junkie.

This is worrisome.

If I were into alcohol or drugs, there would be tons of organizations who could help me. If I were addicted to sex or gambling at least I’d make new “friends” regularly. If I were addicted to shopping I’d be well dressed.

None of that.

I am so obsessed with getting my Fair Trade embroidery project off the ground (after wasting investing nearly a year and $12,000 in it,) I am beginning to show the signs of a bona fide addiction.

They tried to make me go to rehab, and I said NONONO

Seriously: I took a drug addiction questionnaire and just replaced “drug use” with “embroidery”.

It’s scary.

Does your embroidery cause feelings of guilt?

You bet your sweet ass it does: there is not one piece of fruit in the house for C, we ran out of generic Froot Loops yesterday, the car doesn’t have enough gasoline in it to finish the week, and this is all because I spent half of my (already meager) weekly income in supplies and labor, knowing full well I would not have enough for the basics if I did. I feel like SHIT. But I needed to have those cushion fillers made, and I chose.

Has your embroidery ended relationships with friends?

Not yet, but it will soon, the way I’m pulling favors left right and center. “Can I use your scanner?” “Can you take this bag of fabric across town for me?” “Can you pick C up from daycare and feed him dinner? Two days in a row? What about three?” I’m getting some blue-pencilly looks, and people are taking longer and longer to answer my texts and emails. I totally understand – I have become a pest. 

Do you find yourself neglecting your family because of your embroidery?

Oh, do I. Did you read the one about child labor? And the one about failing the most sacred motherly duty? Yeah. Enough said.

Has your embroidery resulted in problems between you and your family members or friends?

Um… yeah. Major. Let’s not even go there.

Do your family members or friends ever complain about your embroidery?

My mom is always ready with a snide remark about my “poor women” and my “dead people’s clothes” (I tried to work with recycled fabric at first) and “why don’t you do something related to your career?” Not long till she tells me to get a haircut and get a real job. I mean, she doesn’t have to support me if she really doesn’t want to, but is it so hard to keep the snide to herself? It’s only making me work harder anyway!

Has your embroidery ever contributed to you losing a job?

It might, considering the way I’ve been asking for days off and schedule changes to accomodate project-related commitments. Knock wood, I need the pittance generous wages they pay me so I can support my habit project.

When you stop your embroidery, do you experience any withdrawal symptoms or feel sick?

You should see me on the rare occasions when I run out of thread or when I am in a social occasion in which embroidering is frowned upon. Like, you know, eating dinner. I fairly twitch.

Have you seeked (sic) help for your embroidery in the past?

If you count three loans ($2K, $4K and $4K, none repaid) and countless applications for grants / funds / support / equipment, then yeah. I seek help for it constantly. Can you help me, Betty Ford?

Sometimes I kinda wish C will understand some of what’s going on, and grow up to be someone with a vision and passion and a high tolerance to exhaustion. But most of the time I kinda wish he won’t remember the shit year during which there was no food and no fun and no travel and no mama-time all because a bunch of women he will never meet need jobs and mama decided it was up to her to create them.

Hi. My name is Marie and i’m an embroidery addict.

Help!

Reason #226 – Potty training, Bad Mom Style

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If you know me at all you are probably still impressed at how quickly and efficiently C was potty trained. Especially considering that I did not want to potty train him yet. Or ever.

This crappy image is the last photo I have of C in diapers. I took it on June 15 for his daycare’s Father’s Day celebration, with his favourite uncle filling in for the job.

Awww, my lil diaper monster!

Now look at this (admittedly not much better) photo, taken on July 27st of the same year. As you can see, his adorable little bum is not spoiled by the ugly bulge of Size 7 Pampers. It’s all him, no bustle.

Lookit that booty!

Because of an insane work schedule (and a nasty bout of depression) I didn’t take a single photo between June 17 and July 19, so we can only guesstimate here, but I’d say C went from diapers to briefs in about a month or less.

No charts.

No stickers.

No fancypants Elmo potty with lights and sounds.

No begging, motivating, yelling or persuading.

No sweat.

What’s my secret?

I took the job to a professional.

C’s daycare teacher said one day “I think C is ready to potty train, why don’t you bring him some undies and sandals next week so I can get him started for you?”

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I brought them, secretly sniggering to myself about the sandals. For the next few weeks he wore (under)pants in daycare, and I put him back in diapers the second he got home because there were quite a lot of “accidents” coming back home in plastic bags.

Then there were no more plastic bags.

Then one day he refused to relinquish the briefs, and I had to beg him to at least wear his night diapers.

Then 5 nights went by with him wearing the same night diaper, because it was ABSOLUTELY DRY.

Then there was much rejoicing.

C was thoroughly potty trained!

Parents around the world, harried moms and dads, do not despair.  Please allow me to recommend my tried and tested method; the easiest, most painless, all around happiest way to potty train your kid: pay someone else to do it for you.

Thank you! *bow*

Reason #225 – My kid is a date rapist in training, and it’s all my fault

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More specifically, I taught him that lifting girls’ skirts is funny, even (especially!) if they pretend not to like it.

Thank goodness he’s so good looking and he’ll get as much as he can handle, because the heady mix of Oedipal crap and mixed signals I keep administering must be a pretty sure recipe to create a future date rapist.

You know you really want this cuddle!

I don’t know why whenever I try to spend some quality time with C and, you know, play with him like a good parent should, we end up coming up with games as fraught as this one.

Here is the video evidence for the jury.

I’m a shrimp and I was wearing a maxi dress, so I decided to do a stupid little song and dance about how “Mama has no feet! Mama has no feet!” because they were nowhere to be seen.

How it evolved into training for date rape beats me. I guess I brought it unto myself for wearing that dress?

Sheesh… And I thought raising a boy would be easier!

Time to cut down C’s Stone Temple Pilots allowance. Just in case.

Here’s one joke I will never make again.

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You know how I’m always joking that the neighbours are going to call CPS/the police on me when I yell at C?

Well…

(No, no, they didn’t call the police on me!)

I work as an interpreter these days, and I was recently upgraded from “newbie” to “proper interpreter”, meaning I can now interpret insurance and medical calls.

And 911 calls.

Th first 911 call was nice and easy: someone wanted to get rid of an unstable (read: “certifiably crazy”) roommate. The one from the fire department was downright hilarious: “ma’am, this is the Fire Department, there is a fire on the apartment next to yours” “eh… yeah… I see smoke… but the janitor is there…” The “some women beat me up last week, and they came knocking at my door today” call was baffling.

But then I got a really nasty one.

“Please send the police!”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“The woman across the street is beating her child really badly, I can hear her from my doorstep. (…) She must be hitting him with something, because I hear blows, and the child is screaming horribly. (…) He’s about 5 years old.”

I still get goosebumps just remembering it. *shudder*

The police left for the place immediately, the call ended, and I will never know how it ended, but having heard the real thing was pretty sobering.

So that’s one dumb joke I won’t be making again.

And now excuse me while I go hug C.