Pity Party

How does one begin a day feeling inspired, excited, content, and peaceful, and end the day with a welt under her eye, sobbing while driving, and covered in urine? If anyone can have a day like that and live to tell the story, it's me. Here's the story.

The morning was good, fine, nothing out of the ordinary.
The afternoon, however, was a drastically different story, and the evening...well, see for yourself.

I had a short break between jobs yesterday, and I went home to sort the laundry that has been avoided for far too long. I found a cat poop in my dirty laundry. Gross, but not the end of the world. I calmly removed the feces and went about sorting the laundry that had to be washed anyway. I dashed to my second job of the day, childcare for friends including a piano lesson. The kids were fighting, like crazy. Screaming, punching, wailing, whining, it was enough to produce a slight headache and to elicit the laying down of the law. "No yelling, turn off the TV, please get along." I will admit, I began a little on the wishy washy side, softly pleading with them to consider my car and their home a safe zone, where everyone gets along and treats each other with respect. They looked at me as if I were from another planet, paused, and then proceeded with the clash of the titans. So then, the laying down of the law. They settled, and I went downstairs to start dinner. Shortly after my escape, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, I have to go pottty.......!!!!!" I closed my eyes and imagined trees, birds, water, quiet... The wailing continued. I sighed and began to walk toward the clatter.

I found a three-year-old screaming on the stairs, sitting about halfway down, with piss running out through her pants and streaming down the steps. Without thinking, I scooped her up and rushed her to a toilet. We left a stream of urine and pools of warm piss behind us, and in my swift rescue, I didn't realize that my own clothing was acting as a sponge to the still-streaming waterfall of yellow urine pouring out of the child.

Ok, so I got peed on. No big deal. Worse things have happened. I re-evaluated the upcoming evening: I was going to meet with a prospective piano lesson client after this babysitting gig, but I would have enough time to go home and change my urine-soaked clothing. Ok, things were still fine.

Then the phone rang, it was their Dad, he had to stay late for a meeting, he tried to get out early, but it was impossible, but he would get here as soon as possible. Ok, late is ok, but not too late, I have to have time to change my clothes.

Half an hour later, I called Dad back, "Where are you?" He was stuck in traffic, very apologetic, but not anywhere near home. I had twenty-five minutes before I was scheduled to be in South Minneapolis. I decided the change of clothes was desirable but not absolutely necessary, and I found some scented fabric spray that I lightly doused myself with. This is not common for me, I sneeze at scents, I choke on perfume, I despise the aroma of cleaning products. But this was an emergency.

Dad got back in the nick of time, I whisked myself away and scurried to my car. I took a deep breath, and revved the engine. Here we go, I thought, just enough time to get there, I am ok, everything is ok. Off I went.

I then realized that the interior lights were on in my car and I could hear a faint breeze. What? Oh, a door is open. One of the kids left a door open. At the first stoplight, I put the car in park and dashed around to all of the doors. The very last one I checked was not latched. I closed it, the light turned green, I frantically, pleadingly, anxiously ran to the driver's side door, still thinking, ok, I'm okay, just move fast, and as I hurried with all my might to get back into the car, I could see the impatient cars behind me, somewhere to be, honk, honk, hurry up, Lizzy, run, move fast, and suddenly---

SMMMMMMMMMACK!

stars, stunned, throbbing pain....

F$%^(SH*)(*G%$P#WHATTHE@M@#$!!!!!!!!

I slowly and painfully realized that I had run headfirst into the sharp edge of the ajar car door.

That was it for me. I managed to sit down in the driver's seat and pull the car over before I inadvertantly and ardently began to sob. I sobbed and sobbed, I wailed, I cursed, I bawled and screamed to myself, I threw myself a dazzling pity party, oh how unfair my life is, how sad, how miserable, how unfortunate....I looked in the mirror and saw that my eye was swelling up, I was certain I would have a black eye, I was convinced I had broken my cheekbone, I was sure that the pain was radiating to my entire face, my neck, my back, I could feel the impact in my legs and was thoroughly convinced I had incurred some serious nerve damage. I was probably going to have a stroke, right then and there. I was sure that now I wouldn't make it to meet my prospective client, and even if I did, I would be late, blinded, black-eyed, tear-streaked, glassy-eyed, concussion-induced, and soaked in urine. Who would hire that?

I called my girlfriend and wailed wordlessly over the phone. She couldn't understand what was going on and was thoroughly confused, but she has heard me in this state before and knew better than to be alarmed. She wisely told me to pull it together, take a deep breath, and just call the prospective client and say I would be a few minutes late. She laughed at the sad state I was in and told me, "If you get a client out of this, think of what it will say about your character. If someone hires you in this condition, you must be pretty convincing."

She was right. I pulled it together. I took a few deep breaths. I dried my eyes. I had a Nalgene bottle in the car, and I splashed some water on my face. I ignored the throbbing pain of my eye, my cheekbone. I looked in the mirror and saw a little red bump and a miniscule cut, but it wasn't that bad. Ok, Lizzy. You aren't having a stroke. I looked at the clock and saw that I still had 10 minutes. I called the prospective client and let him know I would be a few minutes late. His voice was warm and jovial, saying it was no problem, thanking me graciously for the call. I graduated from my pity party and starting telling myself affirming things, "I am ok, I am professional and respectable and competent, I am just fine."

Generally, while covered in piss and tears, while driving with a smacked eye, after a pity party, generally in that situation I wouldn't actually consider myself to be professional and respectable, but sometimes you have to tell yourself really far-fetched affirmations in order to pull yourself together. I have learned this from other similar situations.

So, there I was, in my car with no doors ajar, with nine minutes on the clock, safely out of the way of unpredictable car doors, smelling of cleaning product over child pee, sufficiently affirmed. And I made my way to the client's house.

And guess what, the interview went smashlingly well, and I am starting piano lessons with this new client on Monday.

Gluten-Filled Burritos

I have had a wild weekend.

I don't mean wild in the sense that I partied like a rock star or wild in the sense that I traveled to Cuba with someone else's passport. I don't even mean wild in the sense that I got a haircut or shaved my armpits.

I mean wild in the sense that I spent upwards of 72 hours with three little kids, whom I endearly call the Burritos, ages 9, 5, and 3. These are probably my three favorite kids in the world, but it was one of the most exhausting weekends I have ever experienced.

Their parents were in New York for the weekend and left me with the mini-van, keys to the house, a menu for Pizza Luce, two movies, and a small epic novel of directions. I would be willing to say that I am competent with kids. But, incidentally, as all things are even when they seeem to be evil-ly calculated, this was the one weekend of the winter so far that I just happened to come down with a debilitating cold. I spent most of the weekend sneezing, coughing, and stocking my body up on Zinc, Echinacea, Vitamin C, and then anything I could find that would relieve the pain of my throat and throbbing head. And I enacted very strict rules about not drinking from Liz's water bottle, not kissing Liz, and so forth. Even so, by the end of the weekend, I wasn't the only one sneezing. Then again, this could have something to do with the fact that I fed the kid with wheat-allergies Pizza Luce one night...and, by the way, what's with the pizza place that has amazing vegan pizza not offering a gluten-free pizza too?

Also, this family is very much into getting all their food from reputable sources, and their fridge is stocked with farm fresh dairy and meats. That's great, it really is wonderful, but I am a vegetarian and I have some trouble cooking meat, even if it is organic-fed and locally raised. So I raided their pantry and we subsisted on rice noodles, quinoa pancakes, cheese, almond butter, yogurt, etc. Okay, I did reheat a couple of meat products for them. But I drew the line at dumping the already made chicken noodle soup their mom made into a pot and stirring it a couple of times.

Besides our differences in diet, I realized that we have very different ethics in card playing techniques. The five-year-old seemed to think it was absolutely OK to stand up, walk around behind my back and peek at my UNO cards and then report back to his brother. Apparently, this was their "strategy." I tried to explain that this "strategy" was actually called "cheating," in most card-playing circles, but somehow we couldn't agree on that point.

And the three-year-old is learning how to negotiate. Her dad is in business, so maybe she picked it up from him. At nap-time, she would say, "But I don't want a nigh-night." And I would say, "But, sweetie, it's time for nigh-night." And she would take a deep breath, sit up, look me straight in the eye and say, with her fingers pinched together to illustrate her point, "Ok. How about just a little, tiny nigh-night?" And I would smile and say, "Ok, just a little one." And sure enough, she would go down, and her "tiny nigh-night" would become a sleep extravagana from which I had to wake her every single day.

Bathtime was pretty fun. They have a giant bathtub into which all three kids fit inside with room to spare. They bring their bath toys, and it becomes a time for splashing and playing as well as cleansing. I was a tad bit horrified when the youngest one yanked on her brother's penis and his eyes got big, but he laughed and calmly told her not to do that, that it was his Sensitive Place.

Potty time can be funny at their house too. One day we were playing and the oldest one said, "I'll be right back. I have to go to the bathroom." He disappeared into the bathroom, and his younger brother immediately followed. The younger one was standing outside of the closed bathroom door. He knocked a couple of times and then said, "Hey, Cam, I just have to know. Are you going poop or pee?"

And one evening, I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and the younger of the boys came in to pee. He just went about his business, but he decided he needed to ask me a question, and he turned his body without stopping the stream and peed all over the floor while he asked me what kind of toothpaste I had.

The only real difficult times happened when all three were tired...or maybe it had more to do with me being tired...and they would bicker and I would lose my patience. I think that kids are pretty sensitive, and that when I am on that edge of exhaustion, they pick up on it. Of course we had our share of bumps and bruises, knocked heads, and slips on the ice. But...I'm pretty good with that stuff, since I deal with it myself almost every day on accordance of my less-than-graceful gait.

Overall the weekend was fun. I taught the oldest one how to do Sodoku and he went NUTS over it. They taught me some new games and told me everything I will ever need to know about Star Wars. And they gave me lots of hugs and told me they loved me and they were snuggly and sweet and hilarious. I think a weekend with three kids is OK every once in a while. But I'm not sure how full-time parents do it. I was completely drained by the time they got home.

I really enjoy watching other people's kids because I get to enjoy the fun things like hugs and games and the funny things they do, but I still get to go home to a quiet apartment with no Star Wars, no diapers, no bickering, and no legos on the floor. I cannot begin to tell you how much I missed my quiet cats, quiet mornings with coffee and a silent sunrise, an hour for concentration on a Schubert Impromptu, and nights next to my girlfriend. Sometimes the most refreshing thing is a break from routine because you get to appreciate the things you take for granted.

I'm not the only one who felt that way. When the parents got home, they were nearly in tears at the sight of their kids. It was their first weekend away from all three, and while I was longing for quiet mornings and piano time, they were missing some of the very things I was ready to leave with them: three beautiful, buzzy, Star Wars-obsessed, smiley, snuggly, gluten-filled, funny, adoring, adorable kids.