I told them both to play anywhere in the house as long as they were nowhere near me. I listed all toys and activities available to them in each room of the house, as if they were new to this environment and had no idea how many trains, blocks, Barbies, coloring books and dress-up clothes there were to be found here. I forbade them from yelling, running, fighting, biting (that one was for Z), climbing on my back and/or doing anything else that might distract me from “my practice.” I made sure they knew they were not to enter the pantry, open the front door, pick up the telephone or play with the computer. And last, but not least, told Z that if he wanted to color, he was not to color on any surface but paper that was previously designated as paper that was acceptable for coloring. This last statement carried an additional warning: If you write on anything but paper, I will spank you with the wooden spoon.
Now before you get all After School Special on Child Abuse on me, you should know that the wooden spoon is rarely used in this house. You really only have to use it once to implant its terribleness in their impressionable little minds so that the mere threat of its use can bring about the desired effect.
Or so one would hope.
With the threats issued and the kids happily playing in other parts of the house, I began to meld my heart to the sky and match my movements with my breathing. For the most part, I only had to yell at Z once to get out of the living room and stop bouncing a balloon off my butt, and tell L that if she was going to insist on giving me a running commentary on how I wasn’t raising my leg as high as Jillian or going as deep into the lunges, then she was going to have to leave the room as well.
I was almost done with the workout and attempting to fold my body in half during the locust pose, when I heard, “Mom! Z is writing on the floor with a marker!”
I pushed myself up off the floor with an exasperated huff and marched purposefully into the kitchen. Sensing my anger, L had already grabbed some paper towels and was attempting to rid the white tile of the offensive blue marker. She’s funny like that -- she has no problem sitting on Z’s head or attempting to choke him with a feather boa, but the minute I make an aggressive move toward him, suddenly she’s Meryl Streep and I’m the dingo about to eat her baby.
True to my word, I went to the drawer containing The Spoon. I didn’t want to spank him, but if I make a threat and fail to follow-through, then whatever tenuous hold I have on my role as disciplinarian will suffer even more damage. So, I delivered a swift smack to Z’s bottom and sat him down in time out. Of course he wailed as if I had thrashed him with a cat-o-nine tails and L rushed to his side to offer solace.
I was going to return to the living room to finish the last few poses when I stumbled upon what can only be described as Z’s attempt at crop circles drawn into the beige carpet with the same blue marker. I didn’t see them on my way to the kitchen because I was focused at the mess on the tile. Needless to say, I was stunned, horrified and angry. Oh, my friends...I was very angry.
Trying, somewhat unsuccessfully to control my extreme furiousity (sometimes you have to make up words to really get your point across), I marched over to where L was lovingly wiping blue marker off Z’s face and hands and yanked him back to standing. I drug him over to the drawer containing The Spoon and yes, I spanked him again -- this time making sure no padded diaper got in the way.
I know I am writing this to sound funny because, well, that’s what I do, but let me tell you I had tears of anger glistening in my eyes. I could barely speak to him to express how upset I was with him. Not that he needed me to explain. The Spoon is a pretty good interpreter.
Poor L was hovering around him nervously, probably trying to formulate an escape plan for her and her brother should I make a move toward The Spoon again. I put him back in time out and made sure he was aware of just how bad it could get for him if he dared move from that spot.
People, it wasn’t just a small mark or two here and there on the carpet. The boy clutched the marker in his chubby, little fist, holding it like Sharon Stone wielding an ice pick, and pressed-down firmly into the carpet to create his masterpiece. If you think I am exaggerating, please refer to the pictures posted below.
Now look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have used The Spoon, too.
I emptied an entire $20 can of professional carpet cleaner on the lines and proceeded to scrub away the ink. Correction -- attempted to scrub away the ink. For the love of all-that-claims-to-be-washable-but-isn’t, Crayola, you can take your washable marker claim and -- well do something unpleasant with it.
I knew that merely scrubbing it with a towel wasn’t going to do the trick, so I hauled out the Bissel carpet cleaner.
As soon as I switched it on, I was reminded of the last time I used the Little Green Machine. Perhaps you all remember The Great Poo Incident of January 2010. Well, I still remember it well -- but apparently I didn’t remember to rinse out the carpet cleaner after I used it to remove Z’s poo art from the staircase landing. The horrid stench wafted out of the machine and only added to my frustration and anger. Then, after I replaced the nasty water with fresh cleaning solution, I began the tedious task of removing the blue marker which basically involved washing each individual strand of carpet down to its roots.
During all of this, L was hovering around offering to help and trying to make me feel better by saying things like, “Good job, Mommy! You are a really good carpet cleaner” while Z sat in time out loudly singing the theme song to Fan Boy and Chum Chum.
While I was still scrubbing, JAO called to check in. I was still so upset that I had to go into another room and choke back angry tears as I described the scene. Plus, I needed to be out of the kids' earshot lest L hear of my plans to put Z on the next plane to Russia.
I had to stop in the middle of my carpet recovery mission to give the kids some lunch. I was still so angry at Z that I deliberately gave L the bowl of Spaghettio's with Franks that had the most franks in it. I didn't tell them that, but secretly knowing it made me feel just a tiny bit better.
Finally, I think I may have managed to erase most of the crop circles from the carpet. And I think I may have decided to allow Z to live another day. Sorry this post is a bit long-winded, but I found it necessary from a therapeutic stand-point to write it all down as a means of recovery. I am finally starting to come down from my anger high and can somewhat see the humor in the situation. But only somewhat.
I just went to check on Z (he had been sent to his room after throwing the TV remote at L’s head -- but at this point I am too drained to even comment on that one) and found him curled up asleep in his bed with his favorite ducky blanket wrapped around his body and his little arm tucked underneath his train pillow. Yes, he looks so sweet and I love him more than anything. But I can’t afford to let my guard down. His cuteness is a mask, people. Behind that peacefully-cute, sleeping face is a brain that is probably, at this very moment, churning out more ways to destroy my home and my sanity.
It’s only a matter of time before one of us breaks.
And I’m putting my money on me.
hilarious
ReplyDelete