Recommitted

Sometimes I do this thing where I feel bad for myself- I get frustrated that I (poor, me) have to worry about my weight and the food I eat. Other people seem to have it so easy- they don't have to plan every meal ahead of time... but not me, I have to think about every little thing that I put into my mouth, every day for the rest of eternity (or so it feels). I go to this irrational place in my head, where everything is black and white. If I make one "bad" food choice, then I might as well throw in the towel and order a cheeseburger, with bacon... and fries. If a meeting runs late and I miss an exercise class, I might as well skip the gym altogether. And that, my friends, is what I call a case of the fuck-its.

I've had it bad for the the last two weeks. It's been two weeks of...

Overeating
Anxiety
Excuses
Lethargy
Guilt

And to a certain extent, Freedom.

Today I am recommitting to health... to happiness... and to ME!

The Mysterious Case of Poop in the Tub

Disclaimer: Some of the things you're about to read may make you want to judge me as a parent, and maybe even as a human being. Resist that urge.

It all started after a long-ass day of solo parenting. The boys were getting restless, hungry and tired, and Dadd-O was due home any minute. I opened a can and microwaved made their dinner and tried to get them to focus, but they were still all over the place- take a bite, jump on the couch, take a bite play with trucks- which was making a mess and driving me batty! Chef Boyardee stains, you guys!

"Bath time!" I cheered, trying to drum up interest. "But we're still eating," said the big one. "You can eat IN the bath!" That should at least keep the mess contained, right? They both happily stripped down naked, they're boys after all, and climbed into the tub. I took turns feeding them each a bite. By request, I pretended they were my baby birds (minus the pre-chewing and spitting into their baby bird mouths, sorry Alicia Silverstone). And then, something amazing happened- Daddo came home! "You're feeding them in the tub?" he asked. "Just go with it," I said and quickly passed off bath duty, I seriously hate bath duty, and retreated to the kitchen to make the adult dinner.

Washing, chopping, sauteing, roasting... all with the sounds of bath time in the background. I hear, "If you guys are good and let me wash your hair, we can go get a creemee." Daddo popped in to the kitchen to sneak a kiss and quickly discuss how our days went. And that's when it happened...

"JAXY POOPED IN THE TUB!"

"Shit!" We both said, in unison.

We've been through this before, so we have a systematic approach. Daddo promptly gets the boys out of the tub, cleaned in the sink (if necessary), dried off and dressed, while I tackle the hazmat situation in the tub. Daddo has a so-called "weak stomach." Whatev. I don a single blue rubber glove that I found on the floor and take all the toys out of the tub and move them to the sink for decontamination (i.e. soaking in hot water and bleach). I run the shower to wash the poop down the drain... but this poop won't budge. I bend down slowly, to examine said poop, which still won't move. With my gloved hand I reach down and pick up the poop only to realize it's a FUCKING MEATBALL!!

"HARRISON!!!!!"

This next part is a bit of a blur. I tried to stifle my hysterical laughter, while teaching an important parenting lesson. Harrison spent some time in his room thinking, while I threw all the toys back in to the tub... and it turns out, he didn't want to wash his hair. He figured if there was "poop" in the tub, they'd have to get out and he'd be off the hook. I got myself together and had a talk about lying, how it's not OK, blah, blah, blah. And to drive that lesson home, we didn't go get a creemee... THAT was the hardest part of this whole debacle.

Honesty's the best policy, right?

Let's face it, kids ask A LOT of questions... I mean A LOT! Some are pretty easy to answer, What's for dinner? Others, a little tougher, Why does the moon only come out at night?

"Brudders"

Just the other morning, Harrison and I had this conversation:

H: My balls have these little ball things inside- what are those?
Me: Those are your testicles.
H: What are they for?
Me: When you get older, they'll help you make a baby.
H: I'm not having a baby!
Me: Well, your wife... or girlfriend... if you have one...
Then I got the side eye and we ate breakfast in silence.

Or there was this gem:

H: Let's pretend I'm still in your belly and the doctor comes to cut me out.
Me: The doctor didn't cut you out of my belly.
H: Well, how did I get out?
Me: You came out of my vagina.
H: (Looking terrified), let's just pretend the doctor cut me out.

Although a little uncomfortable at times, I'm completely, 100% confident in my decision to answer Harrison's questions about bodies and sex (when the time comes) with honest, and age appropriate, answers. Since Dadd-O and I have both lost parents, I even feel pretty comfortable talking about death- when someone dies we never get to see them again and it can make us sad. We can still think about them, talk about them and look at pictures to make us feel happier.

With training and experience as a social worker, you'd think any conversation would flow from my mouth with ease... I mean, I've confronted drug addicts, called DCF (child protection) with the family in question with me, provided mediation between angry neighbors, told many people who were without housing, that in fact, I could not help them.

But when questions start being thrown at me about Santa, the Easter Bunny and the motherfucking Tooth Fairy, I freeze... I have no friggin' clue what to say! Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? I don't want to ruin the magic of childhood (or whatever). I'm a terrible liar! So far I've managed to give some short, simple answers it's magic, he has helpers, and sometimes ::gasp:: I don't know. My kid is smart and a bit of a know-it-all (I have no idea where he gets it) and I know eventually he's not going to buy this crap anymore.

Wiser, more experienced parents- how do you handle this???