Carnivals or "How to Cement Your Decision to Become a Hermit"

   I've been quite tired lately. Right, I know. As discussed in previous posts, I understand that this is part of my job description. But the kids have been sick recently and JJ is getting in four teeth, so not lots of sleeping has been going on, thus resulting in higher-than-normal fatigue. This is the kind of fatigue that makes you laugh hysterically as you watch Curious George with your babies, because that darn silly monkey tried to put ice cream in his hat and it melted all over his head and sends you into fits of giggles as you read "The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog" because that pigeon sure does love a good hot dog. But, then again, who doesn't?
   Because of this tiredness, we have not been doing lots of exciting things as a family and we finally decided we needed to get out of this funk by doing something fun. So, we took a family trip to a very popular local hot air balloon festival. We were all anticipating it greatly; it's a well-renowned event, famous for its breathtaking views of balloons both up close and in the sky.
  The evening started out well. We got on the borrowed school bus to be transported to the fairgrounds and the kids were in straight-backed, uncomfortable heaven. They LOVED being on the bus and experiencing the scary thrill of not having to wear a seat belt and of being able to look out the window at the passing world, high above all the other cars. Josh and I reveled in their delight and enjoyed the ride as well.
  We arrived at the fiesta at about 6:00 pm, 15 minutes after the "glow" event was scheduled. This is supposed to be incredible, with hundreds of balloons blasting their flames and glowing all at the same time. As we walked around the field, we noticed all the balloons were just being inflated and we were very happy not to have missed the event. So we strolled, becoming further and further intoxicated by the sound of roaring gas flames, the smell of giant fried turkey legs, and the sight of another spectacular New Mexico sunset. Like most intoxications, it was a happy delirium that temporarily clouded out the common sense of experience - you've done something like this before and woke up with a headache the next morning, whether from your drink or from eating too many soggy funnel cakes and melting ice cream cones, having blown your life's inheritance on wildly overpriced make-you-wanna-puke rides and ridiculously expensive toys that disintegrate the moment you walk away from the booth.
  But we ignored all this and enjoyed the experience. We took some pictures, looked at balloons, talked to some of the captains, and waited for everything to light up. Finally at around 6:30, the PA man announced the glow would now take place. Everyone held their breath as we counted down. 10..9....3..2..1! Pause. Pause. One little balloon lit up proudly for a moment and then flickered out, as if he was embarrassed. The PA guy cleared his throat and said, "Okay. Let's try that again." Again, the collective breath was held as we all hoped to be amazed. 3...2...1! Out of hundreds of balloons, the same brave soul and a couple of his friends lit up for a second, but other than that, nothing. This time, Mr. PA sounded embarrassed. "Um, they can't hear they PA system too well out in the middle of the field, so we'll give it a few minutes and try again."
  Now, I'm no expert, but it seems to me that on opening night of a huge event like this, you could think of something better than, "I guess they can't hear us." How about a group text message? Smoke signals? Morse code using flash lights? Carrier pigeons or messenger monkeys?
  After a third failed attempt at the glow, all the pilots started letting the air out of their balloons and laying them flat on the ground. At this point it is 7:00 and not only have we missed the lighting-up, but we full-on skipped the Great Balloon Race launch. We were under the impression we would see hundreds of balloons lift into the air, in a celebration of life and humanity. Instead, the balloons were as limp and dead as the $10 lightsabers we suckered on for Judsen and Felicity at a nearby stand - dissolved in the hands of five year old Yoda and three year old Darth Vader mere moments after purchasing them.
   Well, at least there were still the fireworks, the grand finale of the whole evening. Since the fireworks were supposed to start at 8:00, I held our spot on the grass with JJ while Josh took the older two to ride some rides. We just had enough time for me to try to airplane some applesauce into JJ's mouth, when the fireworks show began, 25 minutes early. Josh and the kids came running back to watch. The fireworks were nice, I suppose, but after a few minutes, Judsen and Felicity tired of them and preferred to play with lightsaber scraps than see any more.
  About this time, the dreamy mist wore off and I realized the same thing I always realize after attending a carnival-like affair, THIS is why I swore off these things last time. No more! No more of these ever! We will move to Walden pond, change our last name to Thoreau, and spend our time enjoying the beauties of nature and NOT spending $24 so we can get into the park and give up more hard-earned cash on things we don't want, need or really even like.
   At 8:02 the night was over and we loaded back on to the buses to go home. We had dinner and went to our room where, in an effort to crown the evening in glory, Judsen promptly threw up his evening meal. We cleaned it up, put him back to bed, and as I used the bathroom before going to sleep myself, I realized we had missed some of the vomit. Because I was now sitting in it. Lovely. A fitting throne for the anti-carnival queen I have become. Now we are definitely moving to Walden pond. This never would have happened if we lived in a cabin in the woods, I just know it.
   As a child, I never understood why my parents wouldn't give us money to go to the fair. We didn't go on the festival rides or buy the food. I didn't get it then, but I do now. And as they read about me unintentionally wallowing in my kid's throw-up after an evening of indulging a childhood whim, I'm sure they're laughing and enjoying the sweet irony.
   It's fine, though, because I'll get my day and it will be a wonderful win-win. Judsen just told me how much fun he had when we went to see the balloons and he got his light sword. I'm so glad, truly I am. We made a precious memory with our sweet children. A memory so good that they won't be able to resist taking their own children to events like this and experiencing the true pocket-clearing, sanity-erasing reality of them. And I'll get to sit back and lick my fingers, dripping with the deliciousness of that moment.

"Tales from the Pot" or "WTMI"

   This post begins on the toilet, the unfortunate setting for many of our stories. If you read on, enjoy. But here is your fair warning that you may receive way too much information ("WTMI").

As all parents know, the toilet is both a wonderful and a terrible place. It is wonderful as you watch your child finally conquer their bodily functions and put them in the appropriate place, because up until now they have been desperately determined to have a bowel movement anywhere other than the bathroom due to an apparent wild fear of toilet snakes. It is wonderful to watch your child grow and progress and be proud of themselves. And terrible...I don't think I need to go into graphic details about terrible.

   Before you have kids, no one really warns you that your own bathroom time will suddenly become a family affair. On the cute little baby shower advice cards, no one writes, "Stock up on picture books for your toilet magazine rack, because this is the place where your children will suddenly and passionately need you to teach them to read." So, if you are reading this and you have yet to procreate, I am doing you a favor and telling you this now. Get comfortable with your body, whatever it looks like, because whenever nature calls and your children are around, you will feel like the Super Bowl half time show. When you are in a public restroom and your daughter shouts, "Wow, Mom! You have a big bum! Are you doing a big poop?" you will be able to exit the stall, wash your hands like a decent human being, and leave the bathroom with your head held high.

   At home, my kids (like most, I think) have decided that Mommy's toilet time is a good time to come ask me things, often revolving around food. Judsen bursts through the door the other day. "Hi, Mom! What are you doing?" "Um, using the bathroom, honey." "Oh. Okay. Can I have this candy?" "Can it wait until I'm off the toilet?" He leaves for a second and then returns. "Will you open this, Mom?" "Jud! Please wait until I"m done!" Finally he comes back for a third time. "Mom, please open this and don't drop it in the toilet." I give in, but the impish prankster in me can't help but seize the opportunity for revenge. As I pull open the wrapper, I drop the candy through my pant legs to the floor, but from where he's standing, it looks as if I've done exactly what he reminded me not to do and my horrified face sends him into angry moaning. "No, Mom!!" I let him writhe for a minute, then pick up the candy, unsoiled, and hand it back to him. "Here it is, Jud, but don't ask me for food when I'm on the toilet anymore." Apparently it worked, because he hasn't come back when he knows I'm in the bathroom.

  Felicity has no such qualms, however. She stands next to the ever-open bathroom door and plays restaurant. "What kind of pizza do you want, Mom?" Um, the quiet time special. She brings me a concoction of plastic shower toys, empty shampoo bottles and dirty washcloths and presents it with spectacular flair. "It's a chocolate pizza, Mom!" And I eat up, lest her feelings be hurt and she be discouraged from ever cooking again.

   JJ uses her willpower-melting cuteness and just marches on in. And here I'm left with two awful options. One, I slide her out the door with my feet, shut it and listen while she cries and sticks her fingers underneath. Then she waits there until I try to come out but am trapped inside because she's sitting next to the door and my only choice is to use it to, as gently as possible, glide her away, across the floor like a tiny, sad hockey puck. Or two, I hold her on my lap while trying to take care of business because if she's left to her own devices, she'll smack things with the plunger and chew on the empty hemorrhoid cream tube that's been neglected behind the toilet for months. So I put her on my knees, singing the Mexican Hat Dance and To Market, To Market. She adores this and to show her appreciation, tucks her little head on my shoulder and settles in for some quality cuddling. Seriously?? You want to snuggle now?

   The few times I am alone are somewhat like eating an entire chocolate cake. At first you can't believe your good fortune and you scarf down all you can, reading magazines like there's gold at the end and sticking it out until your feet fall asleep. But after about half an hour, you realize everything is silent and you begin to feel fairly sick to your stomach because that means either everyone is dead or all your belongings are so torn up you should begin filing the paperwork for your house to be declared a natural disaster zone.

   I guess we'll just keep using the bathroom anyway, though, in spite of all this, partly because it seems there are few other options and partly because, darn it all, I love my kids regardless of what else I'm trying to accomplish.