Thanksgiving: A Terror in Three Parts; Part 1- Wednesday

     For those of you who are either uninformed or thoroughly confused regarding American culture, or if you are in need of a refresher, Thanksgiving is an American holiday celebrated on the fourth Thursday in November. The entire country comes to a grinding halt so we can engage in unadulterated gluttony and eat ourselves silly as an act of remembrance for those pilgrims who came to this country long before it was civilized. As most Americans still are, these pilgrims were absolutely incapable of surviving outside of the pinnacle of luxury and were facing certain doom at the hands of a particularly cruel winter when lo and behold, they were saved by the local native population who were quite adept at living off the land (of course, as thanks for their kindness we later invaded their lands, rounded them up and tried to eradicate them).  At least that’s the version we are taught in school, so it may or may not actually be based on historical events.  

     As all good American children do, my daughter’s pre-school had a class Thanksgiving feast on the day before the actual holiday. Schools are normally closed on Thursday for the holiday, as well as Friday, since who wants to go back to school on a Friday after you've eaten more in one day than what some small villages eat in a week, unless you’re a retail shop then you don’t really close for the full holiday as for some reason modern American society thinks you ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO do your Christmas shopping on Thanksgiving night and overnight into Friday (which, since we are American, leads to riots, fights, arrests, and general anarchy so you can get a good deal on the latest television or whatever…civilized society, indeed), but I digress…Absolute chaos erupted at about 5:15 that evening when my wife and I picked up our daughter from her pre-school. I stayed in the car, so I only have second hand information regarding the events that actually transpired inside the school walls as my wife went in to fetch our daughter, but the evidence presented as they walked out confirms everything that was alleged. Apparently the floor of our daughter’s class was littered with toddler vomit which was being sopped up with towels by a very unlucky teacher. It appeared that a feeding frenzy had erupted at the pre-school celebration and some poor child (or children) had engorged themselves to the point of eruption. I was notified to my family’s exit of the school building by my daughter’s blood curdling screams, so as a concerned father, I exited the car and made my way to the school entrance to do what I could to help. Apparently, my daughter’s class had made Native American style feather headbands out of colored paper and she wasn't wearing it, but really, really wanted to. She wanted to so much that she had to scream. I’m quite certain that the metric tonne of sugar she consumed at her school party was a contributing factor to the behavior she was exhibiting. This was further clarified after I put the headband on her head for her as a gesture of love and kindness, and she in turn ripped it of off her head whilst screaming “NOOOOOOO” at the top of her lungs. So, into the car we went so we could get to the market to pick up some things for dinner that night. It wasn't until everyone was securely strapped in and we were pulling away from the school that my wife turned up her nose and said, “What is that smell…” We then collectively realized that our still screaming daughter must have stepped in the puddle of sick in the school and it was now polluting the sweet, apple scented air being generated by the air freshener in the car. The smell of apple scented chemicals mixed with toddler wretch was quickly becoming more than my wife could stomach, and as her face was turning green like some kind of Bugs Bunny cartoon, I could tell she was reaching critical mass so I rolled down the windows to air out the car before her lunch came up as well.

     By this time we had reached the market and our daughter was still screaming over the headband that she wanted to wear but wouldn't let us put on her head. As it was the night before Thanksgiving and most Americans will procrastinate until the very last moment, the traffic to get in or out of the shopping center where the market was located was an absolute nightmare. We didn't make it in…screaming child plus stomach churning stench of death plus standstill traffic meant we weren't going to the market and we would forage whatever was edible from our fridge for dinner that night. I was fine with that decision and set our heading for home. Shortly thereafter the screaming stopped and was replaced by a rustling sound. Our daughter had found a bag in the backseat area of my wife’s car that contained random items that my wife exchanges in and out of her purse depending on her needs. So, "Whatever," we thought, our daughter was quiet, she wasn't screaming and the open windows were doing a fairly decent job of sucking the foul stink of upchuck from the cabin area, so it looked as though the remaining few minutes home might be peaceful. Moments later, the rustling sound from the back seat was replaced with a distinctive “shakey-shakey” sound. Our daughter had discovered a bottle of ibuprofen in the bag of random bits. I sounded a mild alarm at the discovery, but the consensus was that it wasn't a big deal since the bottle had a child proof lid and we were mere seconds from being home. Well, guess who can open a child proof pill bottle in the dark whilst strapped into a child seat in a moving vehicle…of course she can…and as I pulled into the garage I heard the nightmarish sound of pills being poured from a plastic bottle. I turned around and grabbed her before she could eat a handful of them. Thanksgiving, indeed. And it was only Wednesday. 

Beauty School Dropout

     Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of caring for my daughter on my own. It may not be with the same finesse, daintiness, organization or level of hygiene that my wife brings to the table, but I figure that if there is no bleeding, there are no broken bones, fires, explosions, vomiting, car crashes, nuclear mishaps or zombie outbreaks, I've done pretty well. I’m finding that mommies and daddies have very different standards, and when left to their own devices there may be markedly different processes, but the end result is the same: a healthy, happy baby and family. 

     My wife has gone to visit her sister for a few days and that means it’s Daddy’s turn. And by Daddy’s turn I mean that Mommy planned everything out before her departure. Lists were made, activities were suggested, lunches were planned and there were coordinated outfits plainly laid out and organized for every day of the week. I was told specifically what should be worn on which day and on penalty if death DO NOT dress her of my own accord lest her daughter look like a little ragamuffin that’s just disembarked from some rickety train on which goats and chickens make up half of the passengers and the people ride on the roof. I kindly explained that I was capable of dressing our daughter and if need be, I would just dress her like I dress. That idea was quickly crushed because apparently I dress like a hobo. It was agreed that I would use the prescribed outfits on their corresponding days.

     My daughter has a lot of hair. It’s very long and wavy (I called it curly, but was corrected). Hence, something needs to be done with her hair in the morning. I have had the same hairstyle since I was seven years old: short and relatively maintenance free. So, as you can probably imagine, doing hair is not really in my repertoire. I do, however, try to do our daughter’s hair on occasion, which normally leads to my wife taking her back into the bathroom to fix the horrendous rat’s nest that I've created. Before her departure, my wife suggested that I watch some YouTube videos on how to do a toddler’s hair, and I agreed, so I indulged. I quickly noted two issues with my research: first, most of the children shown in these “instructional” video have wispy little tufts of hair that are easily tamable, and secondly, all of the little children in these videos sit perfectly still and quietly smile for the camera. My daughter possesses neither of these qualities. To the first point, her hair reaches about halfway down her back and apparently, late at night, little gnomes crawl in her bed and tie knots everywhere in her head (and there is evidence to suggest that they also hide some of my socks). And to the second and more egregious distinction, if my daughter were to attempt to sit still for more than five seconds she would begin to shake violently and then erupt into a reaction of nuclear fission that would engulf the entire known universe . So, when you combine a toddler whose movements are measured on the Richter scale with a father who has the hair styling skills of a monkey, nothing but calamity can ensue.

     Not half a second after my daughter was seated on the bathroom counter top at a height perfect for reaching her hair, she was trying to open the medicine cabinet and dig through the sundry of items inside. Then she was picking up Mommy’s make up brushes and saying, “I WANNA PAINT.” Then she was opening the jars and taking out all of the cotton balls, then the cotton swabs, then the tooth brushes and the tooth paste. Then, of course she would drop everything in her hands and bend down into the sink to pick them up, but as I was holding a handful of her hair at the time, she didn't quite make it all the way down. She did however, yell and scream at me for pulling her hair as she kept trying to bend down into the sink to retrieve her lost treasures. I tried my best to explain that when Daddy is holding your hair, you can’t bend down, because it will pull. I do believe, at that point, if her vocabulary contained any expletives she would have been hurling them at me like a drunken trucker. Fifteen or so grueling minutes of screaming and fidgeting later, we had achieved some rudimentary form of pigtails. Perfect or not, we had to get out of that bathroom before she burnt it down out of spite and anger. I quickly realized, however, just how poorly a job I had done on her hair. I thought that with a quick undoing of the rubber band that was holding the hair in place I would be able to administer a fix, reapply the rubber band, and we would move on with our day. Little did I know that those little, tiny rubber bands are apparently quite volatile and when you attempt to re-use them, they explode and shower you with tiny, stinging bits of brightly colored death. Of course, I had no other rubber bands in my possession, so we had to make our way back to the bedroom. I had to pick her up from the counter in a still seated position whilst holding her errant pigtail in place with my other hand, carry her back to her room, sit her on her changing table, and grab an extra rubber band without letting go of the pigtail. With rubber band in hand and pig tail in other hand, I grimaced in disbelief as I again picked up my daughter to take her back to the bathroom where I realized I had left the hairbrush. We both just wanted to put the madness to an end. Sometimes, the things I do end up looking like they should be in a Three Stooges short. I just hope that when we go out today, people won’t think I've kidnapped some poor, little homeless girl.

This Training Doesn’t Have Wheels

    

     I like to think that my sense of humor has matured past that of sophomoric toilet humor. However, I’m finding that that type of humor is becoming more true to life now that there is a two year old in the house.

     Potty training, thus far anyway, can be summed up in one word: “NO!” That is the standard reaction from my daughter anytime the subject is breached. Whether the question is, “Do you want to try to sit on the potty” or “Did you poop? And don’t say no because I saw you squatting down and heard you grunting and your diaper looks like it’s going to explode and oh boy now I can smell it…” The answer is always, always, always a resounding “NO!” Everything, to her anyway, is more important than sitting in a pile of her own waste. Her pediatrician (whom I've mentioned before, and is still quite brilliant) suggested that we take her in the bathroom with us when we go, so we can really introduce her to the idea and get her comfortable with the process. For me, as I’m sure it is with most men, the bathroom is the inner sanctum, the last bastion of privacy, where you’re about 40% devoted to doing your business, and 60% devoted to playing games on your iPhone or reading the news or watching YouTube or whatever, as long as it’s a few minutes of quiet solitude. Not to be one to put my own interests ahead of the development of my daughter, I do my share of taking her into the bathroom so she may expand her knowledge and work towards becoming a civilized member of society.

     However noble that idea and as sound in theory as it may be, in practice it is pure chaos. I find myself, having gone in there with a purpose, unable to complete said task. To a two year old, a small, echoey room where Daddy is sitting is a great place to try to play "Ring Around the Rosey" and try to get Daddy to fall down too, or shout “I’m Dancing!!” at the top of your lungs and spin around in a circle so fast you smack into the wall and scream out in surprise, or run back and forth as fast as you possibly can in the tiny, tiny room until you misjudge the distance and run face first into the door and scream again, or you can see how much toilet paper you can unroll before Daddy can reach it, or you can see what cool stuff is in the little garbage can and put it in your mouth so Daddy has to get up and take it out of your mouth, or now that you’re tall enough to reach the light switch you can turn the lights off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on because Daddy can’t reach that far from where he is, or you can grab onto that one cabinet that was never baby proofed and lean back when you grab the handle so the door flies open and you fall backwards onto the ground and scream. And downstairs, Mommy wonders why it sounds like the apocalypse is being unleashed above her.

     I long for the day when buying diapers is a thing of the past. Not only so I can reclaim my quiet bathroom time, but also so we can take another small step away from our home being like a refugee camp. Case in point: As I was writing this and bouncing ideas off of my wife, she opened a bag of grilled chicken and was distracted because it “blew a good smell at her”.  It is very rare, these days, in my house that something actually blows a “good” smell in your face. As a prime example, I would like to briefly discuss the Diaper Genie. Kudos to you, the great mind that invented such a thing that will keep dirty diapers in one, convenient place. To dissect that idea, you are indeed keeping piles of human waste in a confined area inside your home. For those who are unfamiliar with the concept, it’s like a tall, somewhat cylindrical garbage can with a foot lever, that when you step on said foot lever, it opens the lid and you can deposit the soiled item inside where it is kept nestled in a plastic bag lined container, along with a dozen or so of its brethren, which is kept from direct contact with the outside world by a trap door that separates the charnel room below from the ribbons, balloons and Hello Kitty blankets surrounding it. Alas, for such a genius concept, there is a downside, as whenever you depress the foot lever and the lid to the abyss is opened, it belches out the most foul and gut wrenching emanation that few people outside the most derelict areas of the most impoverished parts of the world have ever known. This odoriferous offender, like the most advanced, government funded weapon of mass destruction, then attacks all of your senses simultaneously. Your nose, of course, is the first thing to go, your mouth then automatically slams shut, lest you breathe in any of the contaminated air (or get it on your tongue), then your eyes instinctively close to avoid the irritant that is being dispersed into the environment. You then grab your child and flee the area, returning only briefly to combat the biological agent with the nearest can of anti-bacterial aerosol spray. The room is then quarantined for at least twenty minutes so both the offending agent and the odor of chemical flowers are reduced to a level to make the area habitable again. I have found that there is a level of survival that we, as parents are willing to accept. Sure, there might be the putrid stench of decaying filth in one small corner of our home, but it beats going to the bin five times a day.