Tag: Parenting

RIP, Mr. Chipmunk

One of the hardest things about parenting for me is coming up with good explanations and “Momisms” on the spot. It doesn’t help that I am living with a 6-year-old Lawyer in Training either. She does NOT take my first answer as solid. She continues to question and reason and inquire and investigate and OMG . . . . it can be just exhausting sometimes. I love her curiosity, but geez kid.

I like to think I’m a pretty smooth operator and think quickly on my feet, but when it comes to the hard-hitting issues of parenthood, I sometimes fall short and find myself stammering through what feels like an interrogation by a smaller version of myself.

Case in point:  A poor unfortunate forest creature on a recent weekend trip. We had hopped on some golf carts and were taking a wonderfully serene tour through a resort golf course in the mountain lake region here in our beautiful state of West Virginia, and Little Princess and I were sharing a cart. We were having so much fun! Singing, chit-chatting, and just enjoying our surroundings.

We continued this little journey as the golf course path wove through the hills and into the forest. The lush greenery of it all nearly took my breath away. It really felt like a little enchanted forest.

Until it wasn’t.

I slowed our cart as we realized that something seemed to be scurrying across our path. Upon further investigation, I quickly (but not soon enough to dodge the bullet I’m about to share with you) realized it was a chipmunk in the THROES of death. I am not even exaggerating. It looked like a dramatic western death scene acted out by forest rodentia. I couldn’t swerve around him (her?) because he was convulsing all over the path and I was afraid I would squash  him, further scarring my daughter for life as “The Mommy Who Smashed a Chipmunk.”

I had no other course of action than to wait for him to finally stop seizing and go around cautiously. After what felt like hours of the two of us watching in horror (it was seconds), I was able to slowly navigate the cart around his lifeless body. He was on my side of the cart, but 6-year-olds are curious and we are all crippled by our inability to look away from a train crash, so we both got a clear visual of the blood that was coming out of his little mouth profusely.

I have no clue how this happened. We didn’t run over him; I was pretty sure the cart in front of us was too far ahead of us to have hit him.

Can chipmunks fall out of trees to their death?!?

No, seriously, I’m asking because that is the exact explanation I gave my daughter.

She was quiet for a little while and I said to her, “I’m sorry we had to see that. It was sad. Do you have any questions?” (Silently applauding myself for such an amazing reaction to the situation and rethinking writing a book on stellar parenting.)

Not so fast, Holls.

Cue 6-year-old rage and dramatics.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP???? WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP HIM! WE COULD HAVE TAKEN HIM TO A VET! THAT’S WHAT VETS DO! THEY HELP ANIMALS!”

Crap.

I held her as she cried and I tried to navigate a golf cart on a narrow path and attempted to explain to her that there wasn’t a Chipmunk Vet (“YES THERE IS!”), and that there wasn’t anything that could be done to save him due to the severe head trauma sustained from his fall. “WE SHOULD HAVE PICKED HIM UP AND HELPED HIM!” More tears.

Look, I get it. I’m a sympathetic soul, too, and it hurt my heart to watch the poor little guy die. But I want to really emphasize to anyone who is reading this and thinks my daughter has a point and that I should have done something that this thing was undeniably and reliably D-E-A-D. Watching it flop all over the trail was terrible.

wiz

She continued to cry. I continued to silently curse the heavens above for making us witness something so yucky, thereby also forcing me to have this somber discussion on what is supposed to be a relaxing weekend vacation. I started to feel emotional because I couldn’t take away my baby’s sadness and it hurt my heart to see her so upset. I empathized with her hopelessness toward the chipmunk, as I felt helpless as to what to say to comfort her. I also couldn’t stop picturing all the Chipmunk Greats:  Alvin, Simon, Theodore, Chip, and Dale.

I had exhausted all the right things to say, which wasn’t much. That parenting book of mine will probably be more of a pamphlet than anything, really, so I whipped out the last trick up my sleeve:  Chipmunk Prayer Vigil. I pulled the golf cart over and turned it off, and we said a prayer for the little fella.

We bowed our heads and asked Jesus to open up his pearly gates and welcome Mr. Chipmunk in with an abundance of nuts and other chipmunk friends.*

*Seriously. I said all those things. I was grasping for straws here, people.

We eventually made it back to the clubhouse and I shared with the other adults in our golf cart caravan the traumatic events of the last 15 minutes or so. (Actually, what I think I said was, “ok, which one of you ***********ers hit the **** chipmunk?!?”) None of them did; after all they really were too far ahead of us. But I really have no idea what happened to that thing! I’m sticking with it lost its footing and fell from high branch.

As children tend to do, Little Princess rebounded nicely and soon forgot about the critter and his untimely demise.  I think I’m more scarred over the whole debacle, partially because I wonder if I handled it correctly. Death is a difficult topic with kids, and it is hard to explain a situation that is truly hopeless. Mr. Chipmunk went to heaven. There was nothing we could do. And we got to watch (UGH!).

Later that evening at dinner, we were all enjoying dining al fresca, and the whole chipmunk fiasco of 2018 seemed to have passed us. We had moved on to the acceptance stage of grief and were at peace. #amen

candle

And then, I sh!t you not, at that very moment a freaking bird flew across the terrace and smacked RIGHT INTO the glass window next to our table and dropped like a rock to the ground in front of God and everyone (including the kids).

Sigh.

*orders glass of wine*

National Lampoon’s Trip to Backyard Pizza & Raw Bar

Setting: Early on a Friday evening. Planning to leave later that night for a weekend getaway. Must pick up kids and feed them. (*sigh* Fed them yesterday, but whatever.) Decide on Backyard Pizza & Raw Bar as dinner locale. Princess agrees that this is a winner. Head to pick up Little Man.

5:03pm:  Arrive at day care to get Little Man. He is curiously wearing the shirt I sent him in, but not the same pants. Hmmmmm.  Today’s “Day Care Potty Training Pants of Shame” are Mickey Mouse Clubhouse pajama pants that are too small for him and therefore look like capris and come nowhere near matching his shirt. #pottytrainingsucks

5:10pm:  After wrangling both kids into my Pimp Mom Van, I become wary of my decision to attempt a meal out alone with the two of them, realizing I have forgotten any kind of pee-barrier for Little Man (translation: no extra pull-ups). Should these pants become soiled, we are royally screwed. They are literally the Last Frontier tonight.  Question this dinner decision out loud; Princess will hear none of it. We are GOING to Backyard. I then ask myself how the heck this power shift between me and 6-year old occurred. Promise self to download book on parenting that will go unread.

5:18pm: Score a great parking spot, albeit across a busy street. Threaten kids within inches of life to hold my hands as we cross. (I’m talking clenched teeth threats in Batman mom voice.)

5:20pm:  Text Grandparents to see if they would like to join us at “backyard.” SURE! Comes the reply. Yay! Reinforcements.

5:23pm: Realize as we are walking to our table that my children look kind of like disasters. One has pool hair and the other, well, he’s his own man. I think people might be staring. Hipster host makes comment about Little Man’s cool wardrobe choice. Oh well. No turning back now.

5:30pm:  Have booth in back and message Grandparents our exact location. Response from Grammy? Ohhhhh, they thought we meant we were eating dinner in our actual backyard. My mistake was not capitalizing the “B” in backyard. Teachers are such sticklers.

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5:31pm:  Lied to my mother. It’s actually not funny. Crap. Realize I’m on my own. Promptly order (small) beer.

5:32pm:  Order chips and cheese for kids, but “not the spicy cheese.” Where did these divas come from? Cheese is cheese. Maybe I will read that parenting book after all. 🤔

5:33pm:  Look at our young, carefree waitress with a touch of envy as I try to connect to restaurant WiFi so kids can watch something on my phone. (Don’t judge. You know you do it too. And did you not see that text from my mom?! They’re NOT coming.)

5:37pm: Beer arrives, and not a minute too soon. Chips and cheese also arrive. Little Man immediately spills cheese down his shirt, but quickly remedies that by simply scraping it off with a chip and shoveling it into his mouth. “Waste not, want not” is his motto.

5:40pm: Little man has to pee. Oh joy. I leave Princess to man the table, again employing the Batman mom voice regarding strangers and leaving the table for any reason at all. I’m such a good mom. I don’t need that parenting book.

5:41pm:  In the restroom, solidly plop a little pale butt onto the toilet seat. Distracted by his oohing and aahing over the trees in the bathroom (they are pretty cool), I fail to notice that he is not, ahem, appropriately “aimed” and pee squirts all over the back of the aforementioned Day Care Potty Training Pants of Shame. Luckily, I think I catch it in time to avoid too much damage. Doesn’t matter anyways. He has no other options besides total bottom-half nakedness, which is frowned upon in public places, even hipster joints like Backyard.

5:46pm: Hands washed and back at table, I quickly realize that the pee damage is a little more extensive than I thought as a wet trail is left behind Little Man as he scoots across the booth. No worries, we have lots of napkins. After years of mothering (six = Expert Level), I now know to ask for extras of these absorbent miracles. I smoothly wipe it up and throw the napkin aside on the table. Totally zero need for parenting book.

5:47pm:  Princess lets me know that, in my absence, she summoned our lovely, young, carefree server over to the table. Why? Just to let her know we didn’t need anything. Note to self: I shall tip server well.

5:50pm: We have food, we have wifi, all is right in the world! Parenting book be damned.

5:55pm: Little Man spills more of something all over the place. Again, I shall tip well.

6:10pm:  We are wrapping up, and Little Man crawls over to me. I grab the napkin that I had tossed aside earlier and dabbed it in my water to wipe off his shirt a little better. He goes back over to his seat. I gulp down some water as my beautiful and angelic children sit quietly side by side as we wait for our bill, silently gloating and congratulating myself on a job well done. We are on the home stretch. Perhaps I shall write my own book on parenting; I’m that good. 👏🏼

6:11pm:  Like a bolt of lightning, it hits me that the same napkin I previously used to mop up pee with is the one that I just dabbed into my water to clean off my son’s shirt, and then I proceeded to gulp down that same water. So, I guess I ingested some pee. Great. #pottytrainingsucks

6:15pm:  Bill paid. Server well-gratuitized for her patience and the phantom pee on the bench, etc, etc.

6:18pm:  Batman mom voice as we cross the street again back to the van with bellies full, and I  make peace with the fact that I definitely drank some pee. Will definitely need that parenting book. Will skip right to chapter on potty training.