jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

Damon just called from Kentucky to hear how Elliot and I are getting along. I could hear Alden goofing off in the background.

I told him that Elli and I slept in until 9. Then we had breakfast with a chocolate chaser, played with the rocking horse, stacked some blocks. After a few hours we had a little nurse and now he’s having a champion nap.

This weekend is making me realize that it’s a ton more work to wrangle two kids. Genius, right? But here’s the surprise: It’s a ton more work even with two adults. Single parenting Elliot is so much easier than tag-team parenting both of them. Even with two pretty-good-natured boys. It’s still a constant chorus of jealousy (Pick ME up!) and competition (Look at ME!) and squabbling (I want ALL the cars!). Alden is the only one who talks, but they’re both clearly sending the message.

So what’s the solution? Do we split them up in the evening? One upstairs with mom and one downstairs with dad? Doesn’t that kind of defeat the idea of, you know, the family?

I will say that we do all enjoy our near-nightly dinner. I think that has a lot to do with both boys being strapped in their seats.

I’m confident this will get easier as they get older. I think the key will turn in the lock when Elliot is a little more amenable to conversation. Right now Alden will try to reason with Elliot for a moment, “Elliot, please don’t mess up my tower.” (poor Alden) before giving up and bashing him in the face with a block (poor Elliot). And they both fight bedtime like rabid pumas (poor Mommy and Daddy).

I try to stay current on which way the digital wind is blowing, but the reality is that I’m usually the one who can be heard to say, “A rabbit! With a pancake on his head!” about five years after everyone else.

But today I followed two eruptions in delightful real time.

First is Nerdy Apple Bottom’s awesome, in-your-face defense of her cutie pie son.

To all the Boy Daphnes out there: C’mon over to my house! Bring your cool moms!

The second was that a writer had some of her content lifted directly into Cooks Source magazine. The fact that it its a print enterprise is a little surprising. I think more lifting happens directly onto the web. But what was even more surprising was the editor’s response, when contacted.

Holy polished pitchforks, did the internet respond. I actually work for one of the companies that seems to have also been copied. Normally I’d get all cc-ish to our legal team but I think if Neil Gaiman is on it then I probably don’t need to be.

Last night. Oh last night.

Alden didn’t nap, and his parents weren’t too bright in not factoring that into our plans. We have a houseful coming to celebrate the boys’ birthdays this weekend and so we decided we should just grab dinner out and then hit the grocery store.

It was so early in the night when I felt everything unspooling, but we didn’t seem able to get it back. We absolutely should have abandoned ship and gone home. But we silly parents were convinced we could get it back. We could not.

Picture this: Alden has peed on the floor of the deli. Damon takes off to go buy fresh clothes since we forgot to bring. Alden’s crying. He(understandably) does not want to be in wet clothes. He’s also upset because I won’t put him on my lap because I (understandably) do not want to need a change of clothes myself. Dinner is rapidly cooling on the table. I’m swabbing the floor when I look over to see Alden has pulled his pants and underpants down, but can’t get them over his shoes. He’s crying again. I sit down on the now clean(ish) floor and put my arms around Alden and rock him back and forth, which calms him. I pat his bare bottom and try to maneuver him so he’s not mooning the restaurant. Elliot is starving in his high chair and he starts to cry. Also, he can reach my hair and starts yanking it all out of my head. So now I’m trying to free myself and at the same time rip up little bites of pizza for him, all while still holding on to Alden. Alden wants pizza. I give him a piece (the last one of his tiny kiddie pizza). He drops it on the floor, bottom down. I brush it off and give back to him. Not my finest moment. Two bites later he drops it again, cheese side down. This time I can’t do it. The pizza goes away. More tears.

This is all happening in a restaurant at least half full. I’m taking some comfort that 1) it’s a super-casual place and 2) at least I’m keeping the disaster contained to our table and the volume is low-ish. But really, you couldn’t miss us.

What would I have given for one sympathetic smile? I didn’t expect anyone to leap up and help me clean the floor. I know our kids are no one’s problem but our own. But we were attracting attention and it would have taken my stress level down a few notches to get a little “solidarity sister” gesture among the open stares at the freak show going down.

I promise that if I ever see a mom or dad in those shoes I am going to go hold that baby. I’m going to help clean the floor. I’m going to give the crying two-year-old a piece of my pizza. And if my help isn’t wanted I am at least going to say, “I have been there. Just get out alive. You’ll be fine. Also, your kids are really cute.”