Has this ever happened to you?
That thing where you have one child who is so picky about what she wears that it makes every morning excruciating while you try to coax her into clothes that actually fit and are weather or occasion-appropriate, and you have finally convinced her to wear some that basically fit in those categories, and at long last you have her and her brother, who all morning have been non-stop wrassling and irritating each other, sitting at the table to eat breakfast? And they are eating Cheerios, and you pour milk on your son’s cereal, which you then find out is the “wrong” milk, the “too creamy milk” he says. The irony being that it is the exact same milk he always has, only served out of a smaller container. This, he has determined, means that it is not the milk he likes, and therefore he will complain about it all breakfast long.
And you continue to implore him to just eat it, because he won’t notice a single difference, but between bouts of griping about it they are still irritating and poking each other non-stop, during breakfast. And so you declare, with as much firmness and gentleness as you can muster, that they need to STOP touching each other and TALKING to each other and LOOKING at each other and BREATHING on each other, or even THINKING at each other, and just eat their breakfast. Please. Then you turn around and are doing something at the sink when you hear them start up again, poking at each other, and then the unmistakable sound of something plastic and sloshy falling to the floor. And you turn back around to see your daughter’s cup of milk lying empty on the floor surrounded by white puddles of what you can only assume is ALL of her milk, but then you notice it is also all over her chair and, even worse, all over the pants that were simply AGONY to get her to choose. It becomes clear at this moment that you perhaps should have become a childless and wealthy socialite, but, no, you remind yourself that you DO love your children and you get down on your hands and knees and quietly clean up the mess with your nostrils wildly flaring because you just CAN’T EVEN.
Then you scoop up your milk-saturated daughter while expressing to both children how INCREDIBLY FRUSTRATED you are, when you had asked them to stop messing with each other time after time after time. You send her back to her room to pick out a new pair of pants, and you can hear her sobbing all the way. You watch as she comes out with her glitter-covered Christmas dress and a hopeful look in her eyes. You send her back in tears, and she emerges with a crop-top and a filthy pair of stockings that she has fished out of the dirty laundry. Back again, in tears, until she emerges with a tiny, too-small pair of shorts. Annnd back again. You can hear her non-stop wailing as she rifles through the clothes that you foolishly folded and put away yesterday. It wouldn’t be worth the battle if you didn’t have to bring her to a dentist appointment today, and need her to be wearing something semi-decent.
While you are dealing with this you are also fielding the complaints of your older child, who is continuing to insist that the milk is “too creamy” and “different than the other milk”. This is LUDICROUS, but you continue to insist that he needs to eat it anyway and that it is the same, because of course it is—it’s the same milk that you poured into a smaller container for easy fridge storage, which you are paying the price for now. Why did you do that, anyways? Why couldn’t you have FORESEEN this problem happening? And why, oh why, couldn’t the milk that spilled have been HIS, landing on HIS pants instead of her pants, so that you could have avoided forcing him to drink the milk while also avoiding sending her to pick new pants, a task which is proving extremely taxing for both your ears and her soul (you can hear her in her room still moaning at her stuffies; “whyyyy…. WHHYYYYY….why is nothing I have beauuutifuuulll?”)
So, again I ask, has this ever happened to you? Because—and I don’t know if you guessed this or not—it happened to me. This morning. And if you know exactly, or even partially, what I am talking about, than I offer us both a hearty #solidaritypoundit and a reminder that these “precious moments” will not last forever, and I think we can take comfort in that, you and I.
The good news is that S just announced to me that she will no longer be wearing pants, OR underwear, so I guess that takes care of the pants-choosing problem.