As a team, Troy and I are so much better. We parent better together, we cope with stress better together, we deal with good and bad so much better together. I feel lucky to parent and "do life" with someone so solid and loyal. We have a way of complimenting each other and it has always seemed that when one
As if to drive that point home, Lydia went about giving me a run for my money the minute I got back from dropping Troy and Paige to DFW.
We were getting changed and ready to go to the YMCA. I took off Lydie's soiled diaper. I started putting on the new one. She began to kick and scream "Clifford, Clifford, Clifford". She did not want the regular old Target store brand diapers. She wanted the diapers we had last week with 'Clifford The Big Red Dog' on them. Apparently she likes to empty her bowels on a familiar friend. Or something. I explained to her that we were all out of that kind of diaper. She proceeded to melt totally down crazy-person-doesn't-care-who-sees style. It was horrifying enough that all the kids stood back to watch.
(Side note: Those Clifford diapers - #fail! They leaked and they were bulky and I don't really know why I let a two year old pick out the diapers based on the character on the box. A weak moment at HEB last Wednesday - I was probably feeling guilty for leaving her to go to MN. Cursed marketing be doomed, I will not be suckered again. Guilt or no guilt. You won't trick me twice!)
Isaac watched the display of rage and said, "Wow. That is real mad." Hope slowly shook her head disapprovingly. (Which incidentally is what Hope does best.) My heart rate increased. Phoebe said, "I am being good" as not to miss out on an opportunity to point out how much more totally awesome of a child she is than that little sister of hers.
I finally had enough and I said, "You cannot act like that. You need to say you're sorry." She said, "No Mama. I am NOT sorry." I picked her up and brought her to lay on her little crib mattress that is always in the corner of Paige's room for a time-out. She kicked and carried on and did her terrible-two-try-to-make-my-mom-give-up-and-move-to-beach-side-shack-in-Mexico-all-by-herself act. I attempted to talk her down. No chance. So I yelled above her voice, "You can come out when you're ready to say you are sorry." I left the room. I shut the door tightly behind me.
Ten minutes later the worst of the tantrum seemed to be over and I went to go see what she was up to.
Two year old with makeup and teenager hair products and nail polish in locked room.
I did every trick I know (and I know some tricks) and tried to trip the lock with a plastic card, tried kicking the lock open with sheer brute strength, (ouch) and even attempted about 236 random spare keys that are in various drawers of this house we are being loaned. Thirty minutes later I started calling lock-smith companies.
The man showed up. I led him to the door. He fussed with it for about 10 minutes. He left to go back to his van. He came back in. Isaac stood three feet from him and asked loudly, "Mom, is he country? He sounds country to me. And Mom, I think he smokes." Lovely. Thanks Isaac. I said, "You sound Minnesota and have an overdeveloped sense of smell." And maybe you did not notice - but that guy is standing right there and we've not confirmed if he has hearing problems yet.
Five more minutes and the door opened. Our "spirited" child had forgotten she wanted a Clifford diaper. She said, "Hi Mama. I be good now." I offered up my best golf clap to congratulate her before surveying the damage of her time in lock up.
It was probably easier to forget all her huge troubles by enjoying her time painting with purple nail polish and brown eyeshadow. The generous Baptists that loaned us this house have no idea what they've done. No.Idea. I almost feel like calling them to tell them the time to kick us out was yesterday.
(All cement house with all tile floors, oh how I miss you.)
The country-boy-lock-smith with lungs full of nicotine took his $ money $ and hit the road. Isaac yelled, "Thanks for getting my sister out Mister!" as he walked down the sidewalk. I questioned the decision to call him in at all. A hose with water and pieces of bread could have easily passed under that locked door.
We ate our lunch and headed to the YMCA where a planned 60 minute run suddenly became a 100+ minute super fast run - fueled by the most-proven fuel of all time - utter frustration. (So fast that my son-in-law walked up to me on the treadmill and said, "Wow you're running fast.") It's all good though. Troy is only gone for 8 more days. What else can possibly go wrong in just 8 days?
Don't answer that question.