So the other night Tim was working and I was flying solo with
bath and bedtime. Townes and Daisy were doing “double tubbies” and I started to
lift Daisy from the bathtub as I always do with Townes still in the water. She
started to cry and twist and generally freak out. So I set her back down in the
water where she obviously wanted to be, and a few minutes later lifted her out
again. This time – no problem, serene little baby squeals and giggles. But
something WAS NOT right. A most foul odor emanating from the vicinity of…oh no!
So I quickly put her on the changing table on the bathroom floor (when you’re
doing baths by yourself with two little ones, you bring the changing table to
the bathtub), and turn my attention to Townes who was just obliviously playing
in the filthy water, not a care in the world. I make him stand up, hose him
down, pull him out of the water, wrap him in a big towel, set him on the floor
and finish cleaning up Daisy.
In the meantime, Townes is looking into the tub, and noticing the multiple foreign objects. At first, he just seems to be taking it all in, gazing silently at the water, clutching his towel around him like a little Bedouin. Then, in a flash – complete toddler pandemonium. “Mama! There’s POOP in tubby! POOP! POOP in tubby! Daisy did it! Daisy did it! Townes NO POOP in tubby!” (He sounds genuinely annoyed and disgusted at this point, scowling and grimacing as you do at floating turds in a bathtub.) Finally, once he had gotten all the shouting and pointing and shocked gesticulating out of his system, with a sort of sweet melancholy tinge to it, he simply said, “Kinda weird.” Couldn’t have said it better myself.
When I was debating writing this post, top of mind were my single, childless friends who might not see the humor in a good poop story. I wouldn’t have either before I had kids. But it brings up an interesting issue I am presently wrestling with in my newish role as mom. Most of my previously childless friendships have taken a turn….almost exclusively for the worse. Part of the problem is my much less bendy schedule. If I want to see a movie or go to brunch it takes heaps of foresight and planning. My days of spontaneity are (for the foreseeable future anyway), largely a thing of the past. But as someone who was the perpetual “single girl,” attending weddings and baby showers for the better part of two decades – I know it takes WORK to not glaze over when your friends start telling one more adorable little toddler story. So I don’t tend to do that. That, in fact, is what this here blog is for. I do not whip out the scrolls of baby photos to weed through with people who don’t have children. Why would I? On the other end of the spectrum is that I now belong to this other club – this subculture that exists that I never knew was there until I had kids of my own. If there is a parent lugging a kid around, I have an immediate solidarity with him or her. We’re comrades. Kids dismantle that wall of cool and aloofness that envelops single people and keeps us cocooned against weird stranger conversations (for the most part – I mean this is Los Angeles). But parents KNOW we’re not cool anymore. And we’re happy to talk to others in the uncool boat. (This is somewhat less pervasive with dad to dad communications, but it’s still there).
Sometimes it is a bit of a bummer to think I can’t have my cake and eat it too. When I’m feeling reflective I wonder why people without kids don’t just put me and the obsession I have with my children into the category where I put their particular brand of weirdness. You know, everyone has their peccadilloes: there’s the fishing freak, the geocaching enthusiast, the Disney obsessive, the vinyl collector, the adult Hello Kitty shopper, the coffee snob, the long-distance runner, the vintage eyeglass/shoe girl, the dog lover, the cat lover, the movie buff, the Burning Man attendee, the Anglophile, the Francophile, the Fantasy Football player, the world traveler. And so on…I have listened to people prattle on (and let’s face it, when you are geeking out about your obsessions, virtually EVERYONE has the ability to prattle) for (in some cases) 20 years. Who knew there were limits to the subject matter? Darth Vader, yes! Yo Gabba Gabba, no! And make no mistake, I count myself among the above – I used to watch all DVD extras and do internet research on films directed by people I admired. I traveled to Nepal, to Bosnia, to the most remote areas of Cuba mostly for the story. My kids have just replaced my travel obsessions for the time being. You understand, single dude who loves Comic-Con, right? Married lady without kids who can’t miss Downton Abbey? It’s just a part of me the way those things are a part of you. Isn't there room for all of it?
Anyway, the relationships I have with a handful of my childless friends have stayed strong. I figure these are the friends I’ll have when I’m old and decrepit and my kids are long gone from our house. Is it a coincidence most of this group have shaggy, four-footed family members? I'm starting to think, most likely not. It’s great when a childless friend can have a hoot at a good poop story and most dog lovers have at least one. Here’s a tip for everyone else: Sometimes your friend with kids might really just need to tell a disgusting poop story. Can you man up and lend an ear? One of my oldest college friends has recently been trying to organize our little group for a “girls’ trip”. These were the girls who used to close down the bar with me and on long road trips, pee into something called a “Buster Bowl” to avoid pulling over – I’ll leave out the details on that one. We are scattered all over the country now with a wide variety of different lives and married situations, but have at least one thing in common - every last one of them has kids of her own. I’m going to do everything in my power to make it to that party.
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