God Save the Queen

There are just so many hours a parent can parent per day. We have our limitations. There should be a warning light that starts blinking when our reserves get dangerously low. Then the kids will know to stay away. Run, save yourself. Go for help.

The other night, all I wanted in the whole, wide wide world was to watch a mystery program on TV. It was one of those convoluted British mysteries where if you are not riveted, glued, unflinching in your attention you will have no idea what is going on and it will just be people with bad teeth mumbling and shuffling around and the whole thing is pointless and you will have to change the channel and watch a rerun of girls with implants eating smoothies made with cockroaches and raccoon phlegm.

So you can see how important this was.

I announced it. I said, “I AM GOING TO WATCH MY SHOW.” Of course Jude and Eden were in bed so I just had to make sure that Don and Sage were going to leave me alone. I do want to add that I do not do this often, only when I am so mentally and physically trashed from therapy and doctors appointments and everything else that I forget that I am asking for the impossible, which is for the circus that is our lives to take a break for an hour. Isn’t going to happen.

I settle in to watch, comfortable on the couch, and I hear Jude throwing himself against his door, shrieking, like he is on fire, which in itself is not that unusual but I must investigate.

I pad down the hall in my slippers and open the door, which is hooked on the outside to prevent Jude from taking a walking tour of the North Side at 2 a.m.

Jude flees from the room, pantsless, as if a rabid pack of wolves is on his tail.

I follow him into my room, where he is sitting on the couch, panting, saying, "it’s an accident, it was just a accident" over and over.

What is, honey? Oh. He stands up and I see. There is a brown smudge on the couch. Lovely.

I put Jude on the potty and head in to his room with the Clorox wipes.

Don is standing over Jude’s bed, staring at the pillow. I come closer, afraid to look.

I look. There, sitting on the pillow for all the world like a mint at a fancy hotel, is poo.

Bigger than a mint, though, and not near as appealing.

I pick up the offending (and terrifying) object and flush it. Don throws the bedding in the laundry and makes the bed with clean sheets. I clean Jude off and we send him back to bed with a bag of Cheetos, yes you read right, I told you, I can only parent well for 10 hours and then things start to deteriorate. They kept him happy. I would have given him a beer if it meant I could watch my show.

I sit back down and I hear wailing from the other room. Eden is up. Why? Because Satan is alive and well. Don brings him in and apparently Eden has woken up because he wants a banana. Woke up screaming, for a banana. Okay, sit and eat your banana while I look up the synopsis of my stupid show on the net so maybe I can figure out what is up with Inspector Lynely who always looks like he has a headache in his eyebrows. I find that strangley alluring, if you want to know the truth.

Don puts Eden back in bed with banana in his teeth and we turn off the monitor because Eden wants to hang with us and does not understand the importance of rest, his or mine.

His rage at being exiled is audible without the monitor, anyway.

Sage comes in. Poor Sage. He always ends up being the last straw. I use up all my patience on his brothers because I know they can’t help it, and I just want a quiet moment, please God oh please, and I have hope that if no one interrupts me I will be able to follow the plot, just a little.

“Eden’s crying,” he says. “I know, honey, he’ll fall asleep soon.

But it’s loud.

Go tell Daddy.

I did.

Well, he’ll stop.

When?

Shhh

I need a snack?

Where is Daddy?

I don’t know’…

Find him!!
I can’t

Don comes in.

Sage needs his snack.

Can you get it?

What is there?

Look in the fridge!

Did you get milk?

Hush!

Sage:

Can I get my hamster out?

No!

Why not?

Because?

Why?

Then it happens. My head starts to spin and green vomit comes out. SHUT YOUR MOUTH!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!! ALL I ASK IS FOR ONE LOUSY HOUR, BUT NO!! YOU ARE ALL SO SELFISH!!!

Sage’s lip starts to quiver and tears begin to flow. I am ashamed, furious at myself, furious at Don, and more than a little ticked at God. It is so unfair. I want to be a nice Mommy, but I am daily pushed and pulled and stretched so far past any normal limits that I feel like I never get the chance. It really, really stinks. I am stupid, so stupid for setting us all up like this. In this moment, and others like it, I can see why people really lose it and do terrible, awful things. It scares me.

I turn off the TV, and Don goes to get Eden, who is still screaming, and I lay down on the couch and Sage lies down too and we pull the blanket over our heads. Sorry, I say, but that is lame, because I have said it too many times this week and I am afraid he will think I don’t mean it, but I do, I really, really do, if he could only know how much.

“ I’m tired, I say, aware of the whine in my voice Jude…Jude pooped on his pillow.” Sage lets out a snort. He tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.

It’s not funny. I say, don’t laugh.

He’s laughing.

What did you do with it? He asks.

Well, I say, I sent it ..overseas.

What!? He asks incredulously. You did?

Yep. I say. I sent it to the queen of England.

Guffaw.

What did she do?

Well, the British Army intercepted it, and they saw it as part of an international plot to disgust the royal family , so they blew it up, but see they weren’t thinking, because poop, well, you know, it splatters..

And Don came in, and we are giggling under the blanket, and he sits by us, and says he is sorry about my show, what show, the stupid show, what a waste of time tv is, and Sage and I start to tickle him, and we are all screaming and it is way, way too late for that but who cares, really.

I remember being yelled at, and I held it against my parents, and swore I would never do the same. I try hard to remember the nice stuff they said and did, because I want Sage to remember the tickles and the laughter and maybe cut me some slack when he is a grown man with kids of his own, and thinks of a bungled plot to nauseate the Queen of England.

I hope that is what stands out for him, that I tried hard, and that I loved him.

I hope he remembers I loved him.