Leslie was traveling yesterday during Paul’s month day, so I offered to do a guest post covering it! So, here goes…
To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 2 years and 3 months old.
There are no pictures of this day at all, because I didn’t remember it was your month day and I was solo dadding and usually had both hands full of childern and their supplies.
You woke up around 7 but were peaceful enough that I could ignore you in your crib while I prepared “express breakfast cups,” which is our system for getting kids out the door quickly by placing fruit, toast, and a vitamin in the cups in your car seats before you even rise. So around 7:30, I plunged myself into the kids room with the task of getting clothes on everyone and out to the car on our coldest morning of the year so far (low 40s).
Annie was unusually helpful and so took herself to the bathroom while I got your diaper on and failed to convince you that pants and a jacket would be a good idea.
I toted you both downstairs with the crooks of my arms full of clothes, whisked you to the car pantless, and there convinced you to get the rest of your clothes on while you stuffed your face with grapes.
Dropoff at school went smoothly; you insisted on two hugs each from me and Annie, and a kiss (right on the lips) from Annie as well. Then you went to play with the rice tubs.
At pickup, you claimed that you played with “da fie-tuk, and da udda fie-tuk” when I asked if you played with friends. You have been mentioning friends a bit more in these conversations, but not today.
We drove to Doug and Kalia’s house to have pizza dinner there. Pizza was a great motivator and mood lightener. Traffic was light because it was the day after Veterans day. You were intensely curious about our unusual route “why we go dat way? why we not go dat way?” and very eager to open your window “peas open mah weendo,” but I refused this request because it was chilly.
At Doug’s, you romped with Eleanor on the bed, leaping off onto a comforter and bonking your head a couple of times. You gamely ate the top off a slice of pineapple+bacon (not Canadian) pizza at the kid’s table while I chatted with Doug and Phil (in town for work).
Around 7, I rounded you up and stuck you back in the car. We fed a very patient Sous and I prepared for bed while you and your sister started to unravel. Because it had been since Saturday (and Annie still had lollipop in her hair), we really needed to do a bath, and you actually made it pretty easy on me.
Afterward, you screamed on the ground in protest of the fact that I read the book Annie selected first (A House That Once Was), but I talked you down and got you back in my lap for Peekaboo Barn, your selection. Good spirits prevailed as I put you down to sleep.
Tuesday was date night, and we got home happy and beer-buzzed after kid bedtime. We sent home the sitter, watched a little TV then hit the sack.
Then about midnight, I heard Annie yelping from the kid room. Usually these days this means she needs a bathroom trip or has already “had an accident.” I staggered in hoping for the former but getting the latter, and geared up for hazmat duty.
I got her stripped down, which was distressing because she was worried that her socks were going to get wet. This was all that was required to plant the seed of emotional destabilization as I sent her off to the potty while I started tossing soiled bedclothes in the washing machine. My goal was to get her back in bed without rousing Paul or Mom.
Alas, I couldn’t find any clean crib sheets. I woke Leslie looking for them and we realized that, because of a string of earlier accidents, we had none. I dug out a king-size sheet from our bed. As I was wiping down the mattress, Annie went into full oppositional meltdown and screamingly refused to let Leslie apply any clean clothes to her because all options had critical defects, like a bow or button or something.
Near her snapping point, Mom bugged out and I did a half-ass job of wrapping this huge sheet around the crib mattress. Tapping into my deepest well of patience and sympathy, I convinced Annie to put on a dress and lifted her into bed. I asked if she was okay. Teary-eyed but calming down, she requested a bandaid for an imagined injury.
I made a trip back to our bedroom to get one, and was just settling her under her “covers” (a beach towel), when from across the room a plaintive cry rose from Paul:
“Wheres my bandaid?”