I spuddle.

The night before the preschool picnic, it rained so hard that I couldn’t sleep.   Secretly, I was relieved.   Because rain meant NO PICNIC.   And I’m mean like that and also socially anxious and more than a little socially inept.   Any kind of social event like a school picnic gives me hives because it’s just another opportunity for me to put my foot in my mouth and generally alienate people who I’m going to have to see again approximately ten thousand times.   I once was at a baby shower and I had The Bun with me and he was still a baby, so this was a long time ago, and he was a fat, chubby little cherub and everyone kept coming up and going, “Ooooh, he’s so SQUISHY and huggable!”  or whatever people say and I actually said — I’m not kidding — “Yeah, if we’re ever on a plane that crashes in the mountains, I’m totally going to eat him first!”   I mean, W T F?   Who SAYS that?   Afterwards there was an incredibly awkward silence during which time I prayed that a plane would perhaps plunge into the living room and specifically just take me out of the equation sparing everyone who would never say anything so insane for any reason.

Anyway, “preschool picnic” is basically just a recipe for me to say something similarly idiotic that people will remember their entire lives and so I spent the night before listening to the rain, sporadically dreaming about trains and having nightmares of exhuming bodies in my mum’s backyard, and also practicing NOT saying anything stupid and hoping the whole thing would be off.

By 11 this morning, the weather was fine.   There was no excuse not to go and the kids were mad excited, as though perhaps we were going to visit Mickey Mouse AND Santa at the North Pole by way of Disneyland.    So we went.   But something happened the very second we left the house.   I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT WAS, PEOPLE.   The Bun immediately turtled, and by “turtled”, I mean he stuffed his hands into the inside of his vest such that he looked like he’d lost his arms in the wars.   The Birdy’s mood turned from upbeat (as it ALWAYS IS) to miserable.    I dragged them down the sidewalk, offering a bribe of CANDY once we arrived if they would STEP IT UP.    What was I thinking?

I.

Am.

An.

Idiot.

The kids indeed hurried to get to the park.    We recognized our group right away, mostly because no one else was there.   Making introductions, I concentrated hard on not saying anything too stupid.   But it wouldn’t have mattered what I was saying, because no one could hear me.   This was because out of a crowd of twenty or so kids, MY KIDS were standing at my feet, hopping up and down and screaming “CANDY!”  but not in voices that sweetly said, “Please Mummy may we have some candy” but in screams that said, “LADY, GIVE US CANDY OR WE’RE GONNA TAKE OUT THE WHOLE PARK.”   I gave them ONE CANDY each, as promised, but it was not enough.   They screamed.   I said, “No more candy, go play”.   They screamed more.   I said “NO” more forcefully.   I forgot everything I knew about how kids mirror your mood and when they see you starting to lose it, they go EVEN MORE INSANE.

“CANDY!” they bellowed.  They began — as a team — clawing at my purse like tiny prehistoric dinosaurs trying to claw open a coconut.   Did they have coconuts back then?   Either way, you know what I mean.   There was reptilian clawing.

All around us, kids played and laughed.   Parents chatted and introduced themselves.   I held off the two screaming, slobbering monsters that I vaguely recognized as my kids.

In an effort to break up the screaming/NO cycle, I took the kids into the woman’s changeroom.   It was the only place where a) no one else was and b) I could give them a “little talk”.    While in there, I noticed The Birdy’s jeans were a bit wet.   Ah ha!  I thought.   She needs new pants!  If I change her, her mood will improve and all will be well with the world!   I whipped off her pants and found — to my horror — what can only be described as the biggest most foul-smelling disgusting poop of all time.    (Sorry, I’m not really a mummy blogger but I’m a mummy and I blog so POOP is unavoidable).   I lay her gingerly on a wooden bench, holding her feet up to keep them out of the mire, and dug through my purse for wipes.   Which I did not have.   Kleenex.   Which I did not have.   The room we were in had no toilets, so no toilet paper.   No sink, so no paper towel.    All I had was… an Always maxipad.   With wings.

I know what you’re thinking, but I will say this:  I was desperate.  AND I DID SO.   Now wiping a child’s very filthy bum with a maxipad designed to wick moisture away into its magical core is obviously EXACTLY THE SAME as wiping the same kid’s bum with sandpaper.    The Birdy screamed.   I consoled.  I begged her to stop.   Eventually, she stopped.   I suggested to them that we return to the party and have FUN and actually, you know, PLAY WITH SOME PLAYGROUND STUFF.   The Bun said, “What about CANDY?”   The candy whining began again.   I may or may not have done some shouting.   Or some crying.   Or both.

There was also no garbage can in the change room.

Carrying the dripping diaper and sodden maxipad, we re-entered the outside world.  I looked for a garbage bin, hoping not to have to even begin to explain the poop encrusted maxipad.   The Bun began demanding that I help him climb onto a thing I cannot help him climb on to (see: Back, broken).    I explained that I could not.   The Bun melted down into a miniature incredible hulk, rending his clothing and screaming and turning green and throwing refrigerators.    The other kids watched in amazement.    I contemplated pretending to be the nanny, or better yet, just a passer by who happened to have a handful of HUMAN WASTE.    I was about to scream, “WHOSE CHILD IS THIS?”   and act appalled and maybe slap him*, a la the Walmart slapper, when The Birdy started climbing up to the slide.    At the top, she paused.

“Bird poop!”  she yelled, pointing to some unidentifiable slime on the top.

“It’s fine!” I encouraged.   “Just slide!”
“BIRD POOP!”  she screamed.

For twenty minutes, she stood at the top of the slide sreaming BIRD POOP and refusing to go either back down or to slide.   People tried to help.    Kids lined up behind her, many of the saying, “JUST GO!”

“BIRD POOP!” she sobbed.

Someone wiped the slide with a towel.  To no avail.   Finally, I pulled her down by her feet while she screamed.

We crossed the park and tried to remember that breathing involved “inhaling” and “exhaling” calmly and evenly.   The Birdy began to climb the little kid structure.    She’s good at it, we’re at that park EVERY DAY and she’s done it a million times.    The Bun was still unwilling (or unable) to talk to any of the kids that he was so excited to meet, but at least he’d stopped screaming.

I started to relax.    I casually chatted with the woman next to me.   She said, “I didn’t bring my baby because he’s too little to climb alone like that.”   I said, “Oh, she’s been doing it for ages!   She never falls!”   There was a silence.   She raised her eyebrows.   I laughed.   I said, “Of course, now that I’ve said that, she’ll probably fall backwards on her head in the gravel!”

I swear to God, the words were still out there, floating in front of my head like a balloon emblazoned with the words: “YOU ARE AN IDIOT!” when The Birdy leaned backwards, fell off, and smashed her head in the gravel.

So then we went home.

How was your morning?

* I’m totally kidding.  I would never really slap my own kid.   Someone else’s kid, maybe, but not my own.

Filed under: Kids, Me, Myself and I, Random Story of The Day