waiting to hear

The Mister is in the hospital tonight, getting big doses of drugs and being MRI-ed and other sorts of exciting Things and Stuffs. I am home with the Short People, all of whom are tucked into their beds. Well, Henry is tucked into my bed, because he doesn't like to sleep in his bed at night or on days that end in Y.

It is very late, and it seems I will just have to wait until morning for the official news about how broken he is.

Sad face.

i do not intentionally slack.

Congrats to Hanna for winning the $25 Wendy's gift card, courtesy of Wendy's and The Motherhood.  I utilized a very scientific method for selecting the winner, and it goes like this: 

Me:  Olivia, pick a number between 1 and 23.

O:  Why?

Me:  The blog.  Just pick.

O:  Ummm, uh,  hmmmm..... uh, ummmm.... 15? 

Me:  Perfect.  Good work.

So, Hanna, email me at thedaytontime(at)gmail(dot)com and let me know where to send your gift card.  And if I don't hear from Hanna in 48 hours, I'll utilize the same scientific method to select another winner.

it was hot and i wanted ice cream

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I do things that cause me to be really tired and out-of-sorts.  Aaaaaaand possibly cause my short people to be tired and out of sorts.  Which, in turn, causes me to become a little bit more sassy than I am on any given Tuesday.

There was a field trip.  A never-ending, self-inflicted field trip.  And it was after dinner time and I was starving and hot and I wanted ice cream so SURPRISE!!! ICE CREAM FOR DINNER!!!

We pulled into the Blondie's parking lot, and everybody piled out of the supercool minicoopervan, and into the store.  I told the short people they could order anything they wanted, but that we would be not eating ice cream in cones because we are not eating gluten this month. 

Four short people did not care about The Cone Restrictions.  One short person did.  There's a reason why his nickname is the H-Bomb.  The H-Bomb exploded into a million screaming minions.  The boy at the counter was not impressed, despite my gentle parenting attempts (read: talking slowly and methodically whilst holding something that is bolted to the floor so as not to beat the ever-living out of a child).  The 79th WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY CAN'T I HAVE A CONE?!?!?!?! pushed me right off my rocker.

My response? BECAUSE YOU'RE ANNOYING!!!!!!! Shouted in the exact same tone of voice and volume as the H-Bomb.

I'm not saying it was the right thing to do.  But.  He stopped shouting, I win, the end.  And you know you've been there.  (Unless you don't have short people of your own, in which case, PREPARE YOURSELF, BECAUSE YOU WILL, MOST ASSUREDLY, BE THERE.)  Also, the boy behind the counter about fell down laughing, and that was a teensy bit awesome.

H-Bomb then took the road less traveled in the Dayton culture, and that is Passive-Aggressive Avenue.  We will not discuss this, and will pretend that it did not happen for 40 minutes.  Why?  Because that is how you deal with the Passive-Aggressive, or else you will kill them.

And because my luck had run out completely by that time, everybody decided they needed to pee.  Does Blondie's the sit-down ice cream place have a bathroom?  NO.  But really?  They do, and the nice people that work there will let you take a little girl to the bathroom when she has to pee, especially when you're outnumbered 5 to 1.  

Me: My girls need to pee.  I know you don't normally allow people to use the bathroom, but it's not like I can send them outside to the bushes.

Him: No.

Me:  Please? 

Him: No.

Me:  Really?  Let me explain the effort, and the length of time it will take to get all these people to a place with a bathroom.

Him:  I don't care. You can't use the bathroom.

Jack:  I'll just go pee in the weeds.

Him:  The girls can pee in the weeds, too.

Me: Yeah, except they can't.  We try to avoid peeing in the weeds, you know, that little POISON IVY-slash-VA.G.INA combination?  NOT GOOD.

Him:  ::Blank.freaking.stare.::

Me:  Can you even imagine what it's like to have poison ivy on your va.gi.na?

Him:  Uh, I don't *have* a v.agi.na, so I can't relate.

Me:  You don't?  I bet you could find it if you looked for it.  It's probably under your bed in your mom's house, right next to your soul.

And then he walked away from me.  I'm pretty sure he's not going anywhere near anybody's v.agi.na anytime soon... unless he locates his, which is likely filled with crabs.

how would you like a side of confrontation with that?

It started off a somewhat disappointing day.  We piled into the supercool minivan and headed to the Farmers' Market; it was opening day, and the short people just couldn't wait to get there.  The weather didn't cooperate, 55 degrees, windy, rain-ish.  There was asparagus and some really expensive strawberries.

Maybe next week.

We ran a few more errands and decided to visit the library.  It's been a REALLY long time since we've been there, thank God for multiple renewals, and the short people chattered and chirped as short people always do.  Except Elliott.  He's been a little on the shriek-y side lately, and I made a point of shushing him as I put the books in the return slot, while watching the top three make their way to the elevator, magic portal to the Children's Room.

I didn't want to put all of the library books in the return bin, we are using some for school, and they needed to be renewed.  While I was sorting and watching and returning and shushing, a man got up from his computer station and walked over to me.

Him:  Did you know your children are playing in the elevator?  He was sneering at me.

Me:  I did know that.  Thank you.  I continued to sort and watch and return and shush.

Him:  Your children are obnoxious.  Even my three year old knows to be quiet in a library.

Me:  Well.  Good for your kid.  And to be clear, I did not say that.  I thought it.

I'm not sure if it was the lack of response that flipped his switch, but the man WENT. OFF.  I can't remember what he said exactly, but he was up in my face and screaming about calling Child Protective Services and having my kids taken away.  

I was really scared.  Never in my adult life has a large man wanted to fight me in a library.  Or anywhere.  And also, nobody's really ever picked a fight with me before, which is good, because I think I'm kind of a chicken.  

But.

I was also furious.  How dare he tell me I am an unfit mother because my kids talked in a library?  Who is he to call the authorities and report me?  He was being threatening and intimidating and a general crazy-ass jerk, and there were at least 25 people watching him rip me a new one.

I did a very, very bad thing.  People, I shouted in a library.  LOUDLY.

How about you practice a little bit of grace, hmmm???  Maybe a little kindness and understanding for a mama who is CLEARLY on top of things, and who does nothing but parent these small people 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, with NO.BREAK.EVER.  And how about you pull that stick out of your ass, sit down and leave me alone.

Oh dear... I did two bad things.  I shouted really loudly in a library, and I also shouted ASS in a library, in a very superty loud voice.

He continued on with his rant, and his promises to call CPS.   I happen to know the number, because I've called it before, so I shouted it to him.  Twice.  Maybe three times.  And I backed away from him.  His last comment was something about how that day was the last day I'd see my children.  

Really?  Tell them my name is Pamela Dayton, and I say BRING IT.

And then I threw up a little.  Thank God my children were playing in the elevator.

Not one of those 25 people said a word.  Not the library staff, not anybody.  Well, one of the library staff mouthed, "Sorry" to me.  But they did not remind him of the rules, they did not ask him to leave, they did not call him out for being a menacing bully.  Epic fail, library.  Epic.

Thank God that I am friends with the Children's Room librarians, and that one of them was there when I walked downstairs.  The director of the library came to the Children's Room to apologize to me for his behaviour, which was a nice thought, I guess, but really?  Not enough.  Not nearly enough. 

It is never alright to allow a bully to be a bully.  It doesn't matter if the bully is 5, 18, or a 40-something 6-foot-plus man weighing over 200 pounds.  It is not okay.

 

we have these things that we do.

The Mister has this thing that he does all the time, and it's called WORK.  This does lend an element of stress to things, but since I do not like to give stress any sort of power in my life, I like to think of it in a different way.  Meaning this:  I call that The Mister works all the time NORMAL, and I just deal.

I do admit, I throw the occasional temper tantrum about taking out the garbage, and sometimes I don't do the dishes because I need to get through the day and doing the dishes will push me over the precipice.  Dishes give me the stress, for real, people.  Clean ones in the dishwasher, dirty ones in the sink, it's all the same to me.

This is not about dishes.

This is about the thing that I do all the time, and it's called OVER-DO-ING, or, in smaller words, DOING TOO MUCH. 

For example.

On the morning of the fourth day (possibly the fourth day, I honestly don't keep track) of being alone with the short people, I got the MOST! BRILLIANT! IDEA!!! EVER!!! to go to the Genesee Country Village & Museum.  With the short people.  And an additional short person.

The INSANITY. It killeth. Or maimeth. Or causeth the alcoholism.

I will spare you the icky details, like the incessant screaming, and the superty fast running (I do not.run.ever.), and the superty slow walking, and the humitidy, and how it didn't thunderstorm despite the 80% chance of thunderstorming that was going to cause the trip to last only 2 hours, when in reality we were there for like 6.  Or six hundred.  But I will say that the additional short person gave rave reviews of the trip to anybody who would listen to her, so points for me.

The second most brilliant thing I did that day was to take all the short people for an ice cream dinner.  Which is a post all on its own. 

The third most brilliant thing I did that day was to take all the short people to Target after running them ragged, feeding them ice cream for dinner, and stopping along the way to watch a parade.  

It's a disorder.  I can't even HELP IT.

i am really tired

The past three days have been insane.  So nutso-whack-job-crazy that I am having a hard time remembering specifics from these days, and they're starting to all roll into one, and combine with last Monday.  Which, may I point out, was NOT THREE DAYS AGO.

Anyway.

Two things, and then I'm going to go outside and get the box of little chicklets and bring them to the porch, and then I'm going to bed, to sleep for approximately three days.  

Thing Number One:  I am giving away a $25 gift card to Wendy's.  I was going to close comments on Friday (I think, but remember what I said up there about being confused and blendy-ish.).  I haven't closed comments or chosen a winner yet, so if you're a slacker busy person like me who has a life outside of The Interwebs, go ahead and leave a comment.  

Thing Number Two:  I can't remember.

It's hard to be *this* awesome. 

multi-tasker.

photo by Rebecca from Foodie With Family