This weekend, we went to Hollywood, FL. Dylan immediately said, “That’s where all the celebrities are!” I had to explain that this was a different Hollywood than the one in California and there would be less celebrities and more chain smoking, erratic drivers.
Rick was conveniently at a double header softball game while I got myself and 5 kids organized for the beach. At one point, I had to run upstairs and I said to my kids…
“Cash is in the exersaucer. Please let me know if he starts crying.”
And my kids must have heard, “Cash is in the exersaucer. Please take him out. Put him in a doll baby carriage and give him a doctor check up and pretend to cut his hair.”
Because 6 minutes later, I found him like this…
I packed up the car and just so you know, I remembered the bathing suits, the towels, the sunscreen, the sunglasses, the goggles, the snacks, the water, the change of clothes, the beach toys, the sun umbrella and the diaper bag.
I however did not remember to check Harlowe’s shoes.
Those are two right feet.
Conveniently, she had brought a second pair of shoes in her purse. I don’t know why a 3-year-old packs a second pair of shoes but problem solved and we went to the beach.
It was insanely gorgeous and don’t be jealous because you probably have lots of friends wherever you live and Rick and I have to mostly talk to each other.
At the end of the afternoon, we went back to our cars (Rick and I had separate cars because of that very important softball extravaganza). And Rick’s car was gone.
Like not, “I can’t remember where I parked” gone but “seriously not here” gone. We couldn’t believe it. Who steals a car? On such a sunny, beautiful day? We knew we had parked it on level 2 but it was simply not there. Do we call the police? How is Rick going to get to work the next day? How does anyone hot wire a car anyway? Is there an app for that?
“You parked right here on level two,” I said to Rick who looked more and more nauseous.
“Yup. This is definitely where I parked,” he confirmed.
“Rick, hold on a minute,” I said in my calm, reassuring voice. I ran up to level three.
The car was there.
So I’m thinking someone must have moved the car from level 2 to level 3 when we were at the beach.
At some point, every baby has a serious poop explosion in public.
The difference between a first baby and let’s say a fifth is the diaper bag.
First baby: You have it.
2nd – 4th baby: You might have it. If you do, it may be out of wipes. You might have forgotten to pack an extra set of clothes. But there is probably something to work with in there even if you have to fashion a fresh diaper from the lining of the diaper bag.
5th baby: The diaper bag is either at home or in the car – very very far from previously mentioned poop explosion.
This week, Rick and I decided to take his iPhone to the Apple store in Ft. Lauderdale. Apparently he got some balsamic vinaigrette in the receiver and now he can’t hear anything which is a sort of a disadvantage when using a phone.
We showed up to the Apple store and they said they could conveniently help us in 5 hours.
But right near by was a Sephora so I thought this was the perfect opportunity to replace an eyeliner I lost on our recent trip to the Northeast. I lost this expensive Lancome eyeliner but somehow came home with my friend’s dish towel. Hardly a fair exchange.
As I was purchasing my new eyeliner, Rick said, “WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY. PLEASE COME HERE IMMEDIATELY.”
I knew it was urgent from his tone so I only took a few extra minutes to mull over how to use my Sephora beauty points.
I left the store and saw Rick with a very distressed look…
Yes, that is poop oozing out of our son’s diaper and the Bjorn and dripping rapidly onto the floor. Of course, we had no diaper bag because who wants to carry that thing around.
I immediately ran back into Sephora – grabbed tissues and wipes from their makeup counter and cleaned up the mess the best I could. What would Apple have done for us? Meshed together a wipe with a refurbished iPhone 4 charger? I doubt it.
Then we hightailed it to the parking lot to find our car with the diaper bag resting comfortably inside. We changed Cash on the floor of the minivan for the 188th time in his short life.
What is my point to this story? If you are too lazy to carry a diaper bag, try to stay close to a Sephora. And don’t trade an eyeliner for a dish towel.
The twins really like to make sure all is fair in the world. They constantly switch car seats because they want to make sure they each get a turn in both. I keep telling them it’s a car seat, not the Queen’s throne but it makes no difference.
We have one Elmo chair and they take turns brushing their teeth in it.
(Don’t send me another Elmo chair – one is plenty.)
I recently came across this old photo of the twins. They are just babies, all bundled up in their fleece onesies and strapped into their double stroller.
I showed 3 year old Harlowe the photo. I don’t know where Chase was at the time. Probably off composing a symphony or working on his memoirs or something.
“Look at you guys! You’re so cute. Your mama was so tired at that time. I don’t know why I’m talking in the 3rd person. It’s a thing we moms do. But you are both so adorable!!”
Harlowe looked at the photo and said, “Mommy, the next time I’m a baby, can I be in the back and Chase can be in the front?”
“Sure honey. No problem.”
I went to a birthday party this weekend. It was a friend of Chase and Harlowe. I told them, “We are going to Jason’s birthday party today!” And Chase said, “You know Jason too?”
“Well, I mean, I don’t know him the way you guys do. I know him through you. He’s more of an acquaintance right now but obviously I hope we grow closer.”
The party was at a very nice home but it was about 1 trillion degrees outside. And I was wearing jeans. There is this phenomenon in Florida where everyone wears jeans and fancy wedges despite the sweltering heat because it’s October. And I hate to be left out of any trend that makes no sense, so I threw on a pair of tight jeans.
I regretted it quickly and it did not help to have 5 month old Cash, an adorable little hot box, in my arms. Thankfully Chase and Harlowe needed to pee multiple times and there was a bit of air conditioning in the poolside bathroom.
By the time I was taking them to the bathroom for the 3rd time, I started to think that maybe I had to go too. But where to put Cash? The twins can’t hold him, he can’t sit up and lying him on the floor seemed cold hearted.
And then I saw it. A hand towel box on the floor. And it was sort of baby size.
It worked! Poor Cash. Someday he’ll look at this picture and think to himself, “Oh mom, why would you do this to me? Just so you could be happy?”
There are a lot of things kids don’t get about us crazy adults.
Like why we would temporarily shove them in a hand towel box.
Or why we eat standing up but they aren’t allowed.
Or the other day 6 year old Summer asked me why I keep a tweezer in the car. So I tried to explain the best I could. “Well, sometimes as a person gets older, they will find random hairs here and there when they look in the visor mirror and they just want to get rid of them.”
“Like that hair on your chin?”
“Yes. Something like that.”
And then there’s this awkward question…
This post is sponsored by Kellogg’s. All opinions are my own. I happen to like Rice Krispies because they are yummy, low in sugar and make cool sounds. I like them a lot more than trying to explain to kids how a woman gets pregnant.
I’m not a big fan of flying. I mean, just the fact that everyone says, “Have a safe flight!” makes me think that something not safe might be happening. Because when I go to the grocery store, I’ve never heard anyone say, “Have a safe shopping trip!”
I do realize that the drive to the airport is far more dangerous than the flight but again, no one has every reminded me of where to find the life preservers or oxygen masks in my car.
But despite my flying hesitations, I do fly because I’d rather be anxious on a plane for 2 1/2 hours than miserable in a car for 24.
On Sunday, we flew from Laguardia to Ft. Lauderdale and as the plane took off from New York, a nauseating rubber smell filled the cabin. It burned my throat kind of like the Brazilian Blowout did but without the smooth, sassy hair. Four of my children immediately said, “What’s that smell?” And 3-year-old Chase followed up with, “Is it fire? Is the plane on fire?”
“The plane is not on fire,” I responded. I based this conclusion on the fact that I didn’t see any smoke and the plane wasn’t turning around. But I was starting to think 24 hours in a car wouldn’t be that bad.
Very soon after, the pilot announced that they were aware of the smell but that all indicators showed no problem with the plane. He said, the smell was likely caused by the plane sucking up some of the exhaust fumes from the plane in front of us on the runway. He did not confirm or deny that any flight attendants were getting Brazilian Blowouts in the back.
The smell did go away and the plane continued to Ft. Launderdale.
Then about 20 minutes before the plane landed, the smell came back which pretty much put an end to the pilot’s “exhaust fumes on the runway” theory. The pilot once again acknowledged the smell, said all was okay with the plane but admitted he didn’t know what was causing the problem.
You don’t really ever want to hear that your pilot doesn’t know what the hell is going on. I mean, it’s okay if he’s not up to speed on the Kris and Bruce Jenner split up but you want him to have a handle on aircraft issues.
We landed with no problem. I expected fire trucks to surround the plane on the runway and TV crews to push through the crowds to ask me how it felt to be a survivor – but we all just got off the plane and headed to baggage claim.
I did make Rick call the PR department of this airline to find out what the hell was wrong with the plane and to make sure it was not going back into the sky. I think he was more interested in finding a place to get a sandwich but he made the call.
The plane was headed to maintenance. Still no word on the cause of the problem. Hopefully, it had nothing to do with the weight of the aircraft because of some big family with too many bags.