Just when I think we're getting over the tantrums, Gutsy likes to throw one in for good measure.
This morning, after much pleading from the Dastardly Duo, I took them to the bank to open their first bank accounts.
Well, actually I took them to the bank to get appointments for tomorrow to open their first bank accounts. Why are we making appointments to open accounts now? Child accounts, even? It's not like there's much involved, right? I remember being able to do that at the teller back in the good ol' days. Why, in the good ol' days my brother and I used to walk to the bank in snow so deep that the sled dogs couldn't even make it there! We used to each fit inside the arm of a parka pappy made for us out of roadkill and walked uphill both ways, each with one snowshoe on. Those were the days, boy.
Anyway, we're going tomorrow at 11am with the money they received from their grandparents. They're very excited. Mind you, I don't know how excited they're going to be when they realize their money is locked up safely in the bank and not jingling happily in their pockets all the way to the local coffee shop (I love being able to say we have a local coffee shop now. Humour me, will you? I'm a stay-at-home-mom).
In the five minutes it took to make said appointment, Intrepid and Gutsy had wedged themselves between two chairs in the waiting area, moving them over so they could play hide-and-seek. The quiet bank errupted in the sound of furniture scraping across the floor. I gently asked them not to play back there. Intrepid sat down nicely. Gutsy decided he would try to squeeze behind the chairs, pushing them out about two feet as he did. More scraping, more heads turning.
What, exactly, does a pregnant woman with an abdominal hernia do when her 40lb child is not doing as he should in a public place?
I walked over there, again, and asked him to sit down. He grinned at me and kept doing what he was doing. Thankfully, the woman behind the desk has either raised her own gremlins or is clinically insane and thinks mine were being well-behaved. 'Everything's a play area at that age, eh?' I said to her, feeling somewhat helpless. She smiled warmly and I wanted to hug her and bake her cookies. Thank goodness for the people with patience in the world.
I, however, have little patience lately. Let us continue...
Intrepid wanted to take a walk. My mom-o-meter (the internal device all mothers posess that can measure what their children are able to handle at a particular time) was saying this was a very, very bad idea. Yet, with the van only 10 feet away, I agreed to walk around and check out a couple of stores.
We made it into one store. One.
In said store, the ever attentive Gutsy decided he would jump into absolutely every rack of clothing he could find. He knocked over about ten clothing items in the process. When I stopped to look at baby clothes, he took six off the wall and gave them to me. I then I had to play Baby Clothes Match-up and figure out what belonged where.
Intrepid and I were getting rather annoyed, so I attached a chocolate bar to the end of a skipping rope and lured Gutsy out of the store like a greedy mule.
Okay, I didn't. But now that I think about it, that's a damn fine idea for next time.
Back to the van, where annoyance turned into chaos. Gutsy insisted on sitting in the far back of the van. I told him I couldn't help with his seat belt so he'd have to get his big brother to help. 'NO! I can do it myself!' he said firmly. After several failed attempts, he started to wail.
'Sweety, can you help your little brother with his seat belt again, please?' I asked Intrepid.
Poor guy tried to help and got a sandal squarely in the cheek from Gutsy. Ouch.
After that display of aggression, I told Gutsy he'd have to sit in the middle row where I could help him with his seatbelt. He threw a huge fit; screaming, flailing and hitting. He managed to get me four times. By this point I'm pretty much yelling in a crowded parking lot. Nice. And you know what people are thinking, right? 'Why is she having another one if she can't even control the ones she has?' or 'What a bitch! I'll never be like that when I have kids'.
*sigh* Yeah. I felt pretty badly about yelling, too. But you know what? He was out of control. And he's hearing impaired and had outright refused to wear his hearing aids to the bank. So, I did what I could to be heard over his screams - I raised my voice. In public. The atrocity!
I'm going to a local 12 step meeting tonight that I haven't been to before. Wouldn't it be funny if one of those people had seen me in the parking lot today? They'd probably come over, hand me a coffee and a hug and say 'Was today your first sober day, sweety?'
I don't call the blog Stay-at-Home-Mayhem because it's catchy, you know.
I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a cup of half-decaf coffee now. Maybe I'll sit outside and yell at other people's kids for good measure, too. Go big or go home, right?
This morning, after much pleading from the Dastardly Duo, I took them to the bank to open their first bank accounts.
Well, actually I took them to the bank to get appointments for tomorrow to open their first bank accounts. Why are we making appointments to open accounts now? Child accounts, even? It's not like there's much involved, right? I remember being able to do that at the teller back in the good ol' days. Why, in the good ol' days my brother and I used to walk to the bank in snow so deep that the sled dogs couldn't even make it there! We used to each fit inside the arm of a parka pappy made for us out of roadkill and walked uphill both ways, each with one snowshoe on. Those were the days, boy.
Anyway, we're going tomorrow at 11am with the money they received from their grandparents. They're very excited. Mind you, I don't know how excited they're going to be when they realize their money is locked up safely in the bank and not jingling happily in their pockets all the way to the local coffee shop (I love being able to say we have a local coffee shop now. Humour me, will you? I'm a stay-at-home-mom).
In the five minutes it took to make said appointment, Intrepid and Gutsy had wedged themselves between two chairs in the waiting area, moving them over so they could play hide-and-seek. The quiet bank errupted in the sound of furniture scraping across the floor. I gently asked them not to play back there. Intrepid sat down nicely. Gutsy decided he would try to squeeze behind the chairs, pushing them out about two feet as he did. More scraping, more heads turning.
What, exactly, does a pregnant woman with an abdominal hernia do when her 40lb child is not doing as he should in a public place?
I walked over there, again, and asked him to sit down. He grinned at me and kept doing what he was doing. Thankfully, the woman behind the desk has either raised her own gremlins or is clinically insane and thinks mine were being well-behaved. 'Everything's a play area at that age, eh?' I said to her, feeling somewhat helpless. She smiled warmly and I wanted to hug her and bake her cookies. Thank goodness for the people with patience in the world.
I, however, have little patience lately. Let us continue...
Intrepid wanted to take a walk. My mom-o-meter (the internal device all mothers posess that can measure what their children are able to handle at a particular time) was saying this was a very, very bad idea. Yet, with the van only 10 feet away, I agreed to walk around and check out a couple of stores.
We made it into one store. One.
In said store, the ever attentive Gutsy decided he would jump into absolutely every rack of clothing he could find. He knocked over about ten clothing items in the process. When I stopped to look at baby clothes, he took six off the wall and gave them to me. I then I had to play Baby Clothes Match-up and figure out what belonged where.
Intrepid and I were getting rather annoyed, so I attached a chocolate bar to the end of a skipping rope and lured Gutsy out of the store like a greedy mule.
Okay, I didn't. But now that I think about it, that's a damn fine idea for next time.
Back to the van, where annoyance turned into chaos. Gutsy insisted on sitting in the far back of the van. I told him I couldn't help with his seat belt so he'd have to get his big brother to help. 'NO! I can do it myself!' he said firmly. After several failed attempts, he started to wail.
'Sweety, can you help your little brother with his seat belt again, please?' I asked Intrepid.
Poor guy tried to help and got a sandal squarely in the cheek from Gutsy. Ouch.
After that display of aggression, I told Gutsy he'd have to sit in the middle row where I could help him with his seatbelt. He threw a huge fit; screaming, flailing and hitting. He managed to get me four times. By this point I'm pretty much yelling in a crowded parking lot. Nice. And you know what people are thinking, right? 'Why is she having another one if she can't even control the ones she has?' or 'What a bitch! I'll never be like that when I have kids'.
*sigh* Yeah. I felt pretty badly about yelling, too. But you know what? He was out of control. And he's hearing impaired and had outright refused to wear his hearing aids to the bank. So, I did what I could to be heard over his screams - I raised my voice. In public. The atrocity!
I'm going to a local 12 step meeting tonight that I haven't been to before. Wouldn't it be funny if one of those people had seen me in the parking lot today? They'd probably come over, hand me a coffee and a hug and say 'Was today your first sober day, sweety?'
I don't call the blog Stay-at-Home-Mayhem because it's catchy, you know.
I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a cup of half-decaf coffee now. Maybe I'll sit outside and yell at other people's kids for good measure, too. Go big or go home, right?