Before the haircut
After
The haircut pictures don't really have anything to do with the police, they're just the most recent shots I have of Matteas. I loved his hair long and shaggy, but it was getting a little bit out of control. He saw me giving Aaron a haircut the other night, and asked for one of his own. With Aaron's help I managed to do a pretty decent job, although it was touch and go for a while; Matteas is so darn wiggly, and then he thought the comb was tickly so there was a lot of moving around and near-chopping of fingers(mine, not his). After a lot of patient head-holding from Aaron, we got it done. My only regret is that all the bright blond highlights are gone, but I'm sure Summer will come along and take care of that.
And now, where the police come in...
I have never really been a terribly "together" person; while I excel in certain areas, there is usually a trade-off. I choose to focus on a few things that are my top priorities and pretty much don't worry about the rest. I'd like to be more on top of things, but a lot of the time I feel like it isn't worth the struggle. At least not as long as the struggle involves wrestling whiny kids.
Last week Jack was invited to a birthday party, which we missed due to Matteas being in a state of serious snottiness; every few minutes there would be a fresh smear of boogers across his face, so I thought it was best not to take our slimy selves to the birthday party. We hung onto the present for the birthday boy, and yesterday at school pick-up I actually remembered to give it to him. I was having a semi-together day; I'd done my hair, was wearing an actual outfit as opposed to sweatpants and a coat, managed to fill the car with gas and pull off a trip to Trader Joe's with Matteas in tow, and now I was thoughtfully remembering birthday presents for a kid whose party we didn't even attend. Someone give me a gold star.
I get Jack from school, collect his papers from his cubby, remember to grab his water bottle. I see the birthday boy and tell him that we have a present for him in the trunk of my car. I hit the trunk button on my car remote, simultaneously hitting the "lock" button(you know where this is going, right?). Matteas is already buckled into his seat. I pull out the present, toss my armful of school stuff into the trunk, and shut it.
With the keys inside.
I knew I shouldn't have put on a bra today; it probably cost me my last few "togetherness" points.
Jack's teacher immediately calls 911(Aaron was more than an hour away) and the mom of the birthday boy kindly waits with me, and she and the teacher take turns regaling me with stories of all the times they locked themselves out of the house while their newborn was napping, it's happened to all of us, etc. I stand by the window next to Matteas and tell him that Mama locked the keys in the trunk, but a nice policeman is coming to get them out and everything will be okay. He was well for a few minutes, but the windows in the car are up and it's starting to get a little warm in the car. I try instructing him to slide the top harness of his carseat buckle down and pull his arms out so he can reach forward and unlock the door, and he does actually get the buckle to slide down but then he's too upset to listen to further direction. The cop shows up, has me sign the release form and gets to work on the passenger-side door. Matteas is freaking out by now, his little face is flushed and sweaty, and he's crying. I put my hand on the window next to his face and try to talk soothingly to him, but this is difficult because he's crying and can't really hear me through the glass anyway so I have to shout which isn't really very soothing. In spite of the stressful circumstances I feel a quick moment of embarrassment that my car is so messy, the floor of the backseat littered with buckets from the beach, extra clothes and coats and about 16 half-used packages of diaper wipes.
The cop tries valiantly to unlock the door, but apparently my car is extra difficult to burglarize.
This is not comforting news under the circumstances.
At this point, Matteas is so upset that he's screaming and rubbing snot all over his face. The snot irritates him and he tries to brush it off his face, but he succeeds only in gashing his own cheek. Between the snot and the screaming he's getting pretty worked up, and in short order he barfs all over himself. Good thing he drank a lot of milk with lunch.
"This kind of thing doesn't usually happen, I'm a very attentive mother!" I want to blurt out. "I control Jack's eczema by giving up wheat as a family! I read to them everyday! I feed them only organic fruits and vegetables! I'm training for a $%#@ing marathon!!!" But none of this matters right now, so I don't say any of it. I meekly accept that it is my turn to feel sheepish, that no one gets everything right all of the time and it doesn't make me a bad mother, it just makes me human.
Another cop shows up to help, and Jack's teacher gets me a damp cloth to wipe Matteas with when I eventually get him out of my car. Twenty minutes after the 911 call was made, Cop #1 succeeds in getting the door open which of course sets off the alarm, so now that sound is added to the screaming. I lunge into the now-open passenger door and hit the unlock button, run back around to Matteas and pull him out, sweaty and covered from head to toe in various bodily fluids. His whole little body is trembling and his hair is matted with sweat.
"I'm sorry baby, Mama's so sorry," I whisper over and over again as I rock him in my arms. "Mama was right here all the time, I knew the policeman would save you, it's okay now baby, it's okay," and in a minute or two he calms down. I thank the cops, who are very friendly and understanding and they don't even tell me I'm a bad mother or that I should have cleaned my car that morning instead of having coffee with Anna while the kids watched cartoons.
We get home and I run a warm bath for Matteas, change my clothes and get Matteas a bottle of grape juice to get the taste of curdled milk out of his mouth, and in short order everything is just fine. I give myself permission to make macaroni and cheese for dinner(with brown rice pasta). My friend Anna's words come back to me: "It's the mothers who think they have it all figured out that you need to watch out for; they're not open to the fact that they might be getting something wrong. The good mothers are the ones who know they need help; they know they can't always do it alone." Anna's like that; she can make you feel like a good person precisely
because you made a mistake.
As I'm making dinner, the phone rings. It's Aaron's brother Tristan, calling to say that Grandpa Caseri has passed away quietly in his sleep. I light a candle and say a prayer for Grandma Caseri, who will probably never quite understand where her husband went. I resolve to be extra-nice to Aaron when he comes home, and start tidying up the house as a welcome. As the noodles for dinner are cooking, I load the dishwasher to the brim which is a good thing because after dinner we will be totally out of clean silverware. I put in the soap, close the door and push the start button.
Nothing happens.
I fiddle with it for a while, then realize that something must have shorted when Matteas flooded the counter earlier in the day while "doing the dishes," a process which bought me fifteen minutes of peace to eat my lunch unmolested but which apparently cost me a working dishwasher.
Aaron gets home and I open wine, kiss him hello, ask if he's alright. He says yes and then asks me if today's events have motivated me to get the spare key(which isn't spare anymore because the real spare broke off in the lock a few months ago) back in its hiding place, which I wrongly interpret as criticism. I bite my tongue, and all I say in reply is "yes."
The phone rings. It's a young kid named Will, trying to earn money for college by selling me knives. I hate solicitors. Especially the kind who call during the dinner hour because they know you're home. Poor Will. He doesn't deserve what's about to happen, but unfortunately for him he's the last straw and I let fly.
"Will, I'm sure you're a very nice kid and that your knives are of the finest quality, but I accidentally locked my kid in the car today and the police had to be called to get him out but not before he got so upset that he barfed all over, my husband's grandfather passed away less than an hour ago and my dishwasher is broken. I really hope you get to college but I'm just not interested in any knives right now."
"Oh, uh, I'm really sorry about all that; I completely understand. Have a good evening," stammers Will, beating a hasty retreat.
As I pray with Matteas that night, we thank God for cozy beds, warm baths, and policemen. Later, in my own bed, I say a prayer of gratitude for emergency help that comes when you need it, and for moms who are willing to have the "I'm not perfect either" conversation. Then I promise myself that tomorrow while Jack's at school, I will buy myself a cheese danish to eat after I wash all the dishes by hand. And I will wear sweats to school pick-up.
Before the haircut
After
The haircut pictures don't really have anything to do with the police, they're just the most recent shots I have of Matteas. I loved his hair long and shaggy, but it was getting a little bit out of control. He saw me giving Aaron a haircut the other night, and asked for one of his own. With Aaron's help I managed to do a pretty decent job, although it was touch and go for a while; Matteas is so darn wiggly, and then he thought the comb was tickly so there was a lot of moving around and near-chopping of fingers(mine, not his). After a lot of patient head-holding from Aaron, we got it done. My only regret is that all the bright blond highlights are gone, but I'm sure Summer will come along and take care of that.
And now, where the police come in...
I have never really been a terribly "together" person; while I excel in certain areas, there is usually a trade-off. I choose to focus on a few things that are my top priorities and pretty much don't worry about the rest. I'd like to be more on top of things, but a lot of the time I feel like it isn't worth the struggle. At least not as long as the struggle involves wrestling whiny kids.
Last week Jack was invited to a birthday party, which we missed due to Matteas being in a state of serious snottiness; every few minutes there would be a fresh smear of boogers across his face, so I thought it was best not to take our slimy selves to the birthday party. We hung onto the present for the birthday boy, and yesterday at school pick-up I actually remembered to give it to him. I was having a semi-together day; I'd done my hair, was wearing an actual outfit as opposed to sweatpants and a coat, managed to fill the car with gas and pull off a trip to Trader Joe's with Matteas in tow, and now I was thoughtfully remembering birthday presents for a kid whose party we didn't even attend. Someone give me a gold star.
I get Jack from school, collect his papers from his cubby, remember to grab his water bottle. I see the birthday boy and tell him that we have a present for him in the trunk of my car. I hit the trunk button on my car remote, simultaneously hitting the "lock" button(you know where this is going, right?). Matteas is already buckled into his seat. I pull out the present, toss my armful of school stuff into the trunk, and shut it.
With the keys inside.
I knew I shouldn't have put on a bra today; it probably cost me my last few "togetherness" points.
Jack's teacher immediately calls 911(Aaron was more than an hour away) and the mom of the birthday boy kindly waits with me, and she and the teacher take turns regaling me with stories of all the times they locked themselves out of the house while their newborn was napping, it's happened to all of us, etc. I stand by the window next to Matteas and tell him that Mama locked the keys in the trunk, but a nice policeman is coming to get them out and everything will be okay. He was well for a few minutes, but the windows in the car are up and it's starting to get a little warm in the car. I try instructing him to slide the top harness of his carseat buckle down and pull his arms out so he can reach forward and unlock the door, and he does actually get the buckle to slide down but then he's too upset to listen to further direction. The cop shows up, has me sign the release form and gets to work on the passenger-side door. Matteas is freaking out by now, his little face is flushed and sweaty, and he's crying. I put my hand on the window next to his face and try to talk soothingly to him, but this is difficult because he's crying and can't really hear me through the glass anyway so I have to shout which isn't really very soothing. In spite of the stressful circumstances I feel a quick moment of embarrassment that my car is so messy, the floor of the backseat littered with buckets from the beach, extra clothes and coats and about 16 half-used packages of diaper wipes.
The cop tries valiantly to unlock the door, but apparently my car is extra difficult to burglarize.
This is not comforting news under the circumstances.
At this point, Matteas is so upset that he's screaming and rubbing snot all over his face. The snot irritates him and he tries to brush it off his face, but he succeeds only in gashing his own cheek. Between the snot and the screaming he's getting pretty worked up, and in short order he barfs all over himself. Good thing he drank a lot of milk with lunch.
"This kind of thing doesn't usually happen, I'm a very attentive mother!" I want to blurt out. "I control Jack's eczema by giving up wheat as a family! I read to them everyday! I feed them only organic fruits and vegetables! I'm training for a $%#@ing marathon!!!" But none of this matters right now, so I don't say any of it. I meekly accept that it is my turn to feel sheepish, that no one gets everything right all of the time and it doesn't make me a bad mother, it just makes me human.
Another cop shows up to help, and Jack's teacher gets me a damp cloth to wipe Matteas with when I eventually get him out of my car. Twenty minutes after the 911 call was made, Cop #1 succeeds in getting the door open which of course sets off the alarm, so now that sound is added to the screaming. I lunge into the now-open passenger door and hit the unlock button, run back around to Matteas and pull him out, sweaty and covered from head to toe in various bodily fluids. His whole little body is trembling and his hair is matted with sweat.
"I'm sorry baby, Mama's so sorry," I whisper over and over again as I rock him in my arms. "Mama was right here all the time, I knew the policeman would save you, it's okay now baby, it's okay," and in a minute or two he calms down. I thank the cops, who are very friendly and understanding and they don't even tell me I'm a bad mother or that I should have cleaned my car that morning instead of having coffee with Anna while the kids watched cartoons.
We get home and I run a warm bath for Matteas, change my clothes and get Matteas a bottle of grape juice to get the taste of curdled milk out of his mouth, and in short order everything is just fine. I give myself permission to make macaroni and cheese for dinner(with brown rice pasta). My friend Anna's words come back to me: "It's the mothers who think they have it all figured out that you need to watch out for; they're not open to the fact that they might be getting something wrong. The good mothers are the ones who know they need help; they know they can't always do it alone." Anna's like that; she can make you feel like a good person precisely because you made a mistake.
As I'm making dinner, the phone rings. It's Aaron's brother Tristan, calling to say that Grandpa Caseri has passed away quietly in his sleep. I light a candle and say a prayer for Grandma Caseri, who will probably never quite understand where her husband went. I resolve to be extra-nice to Aaron when he comes home, and start tidying up the house as a welcome. As the noodles for dinner are cooking, I load the dishwasher to the brim which is a good thing because after dinner we will be totally out of clean silverware. I put in the soap, close the door and push the start button.
Nothing happens.
I fiddle with it for a while, then realize that something must have shorted when Matteas flooded the counter earlier in the day while "doing the dishes," a process which bought me fifteen minutes of peace to eat my lunch unmolested but which apparently cost me a working dishwasher.
Aaron gets home and I open wine, kiss him hello, ask if he's alright. He says yes and then asks me if today's events have motivated me to get the spare key(which isn't spare anymore because the real spare broke off in the lock a few months ago) back in its hiding place, which I wrongly interpret as criticism. I bite my tongue, and all I say in reply is "yes."
The phone rings. It's a young kid named Will, trying to earn money for college by selling me knives. I hate solicitors. Especially the kind who call during the dinner hour because they know you're home. Poor Will. He doesn't deserve what's about to happen, but unfortunately for him he's the last straw and I let fly.
"Will, I'm sure you're a very nice kid and that your knives are of the finest quality, but I accidentally locked my kid in the car today and the police had to be called to get him out but not before he got so upset that he barfed all over, my husband's grandfather passed away less than an hour ago and my dishwasher is broken. I really hope you get to college but I'm just not interested in any knives right now."
"Oh, uh, I'm really sorry about all that; I completely understand. Have a good evening," stammers Will, beating a hasty retreat.
As I pray with Matteas that night, we thank God for cozy beds, warm baths, and policemen. Later, in my own bed, I say a prayer of gratitude for emergency help that comes when you need it, and for moms who are willing to have the "I'm not perfect either" conversation. Then I promise myself that tomorrow while Jack's at school, I will buy myself a cheese danish to eat after I wash all the dishes by hand. And I will wear sweats to school pick-up.
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