Written by Emily
Sometimes life’s lessons are subtle. Sometimes not so…
Lesson Number #1:
We took Noah and Chloe to see the Christmas Spectacular show at Radio City Music Hall on Tuesday.
It was a wonderful trip. Never mind that a nasty virus swept through our house that very night, the next day and for several days after. I can’t blame the Rockettes.
Following the show, we did some NYC sightseeing to get completely immersed in the Christmas spirit: the tree, the skaters, the windows, a $120 rickshaw ride. And there it is. A $120 rickshaw ride from FAO Schwarz to Macy’s. I think $120 is a fair price for my children’s terror as we weaved in and out of NYC traffic.
I think $120 is a fair price for the silly smiles exchanged between passersby and me. I’m sure the skinny, perspiring pedaler thought it was fair. Me? Not so much.
Lesson learned: Read the fine print and parenthetical asides. I was an English teacher, for crying out loud (and yes, I almost cried out loud).
Lesson Number #2:
On the same trip to NYC, I thought I’d take care of a little Christmas shopping–nothing major as my children revolt at the mere sight of stores. I needed a Zara gift card. A quick in and out, and I could check a gift off my list. I walked inside intent on completing my task when the security guard at the door pointed to a man with a stroller and then pointed to the door. My mouth dropped open. After a few laps around the store, my rage grew. I simply had to leave. This mother of three was not going to be a patron of this place. I was internally outraged. Outwardly, I gave my best clenched jaw.
As I left, I turned to the father, who was standing outside with the stroller and confirmed, more for solidarity than details, “Did he make you leave because you had a stroller?”
The father smiled and pointed to his son, “Oh, no. He’s eating.”
I looked at the little boy dripping and sticky with mango juice running down his chin. He was a slobbery, gooey mess. Even I was impressed at how thoroughly covered in food he had become.
(A few hours later, I sent my husband into another Zara. He purchased the gift card without incident.)
Lesson learned: Check my self-righteous indignation at the door. Or leave it with the messy toddler. He would, no doubt, destroy it.
Lesson Number #3:
Back from NYC the next day, surrounded by the comforts of home, I let myself get a bit too comfortable. My hyper-alert mom radar was dangerously undercharged from lack of sleep.
I changed Sylvie’s diaper, wrapped it up and continued the process…until Chloe demanded my attention. I turned for a moment to address Chloe’s needs, leaned away from Sylvie, who was pants-less on the floor and turned back to find her waving the soiled diaper like a maraca.
Naturally, I screamed. A log of feces spiraled out of the diaper and landed next to my darling babe. Still screaming, I grabbed the diaper and lunged to get the giant turd. Somehow my one-year old beat me to it and picked it up like a regular plaything.
Still screaming, I wrangled the thankfully-solid mass from her hands. I then began the disinfecting process. That was Wednesday. Still screaming, I finished the disinfecting process five minutes ago.
Lesson learned: Focus until the job is done…especially when poop is involved. But focus, in general, I think.