Tiny

I was going to write about being frugal today, but it's been bumped due to events of today which have left me too discombobulated to talk about something coherently. Today, Piglet woke up on the wrong side of the bed. My parents were here all weekend and seem to have wiped him out because he woke up with the devil in his pants.

The good news was that we had plans to go to the pumpkin farm this morning with one of our playgroups. (Not the one with the chick I don't like those kid is mean to Piglet.) There were four moms, eight boys, and one girl. I thought I was in good company until I realized that it was my kid's turn to be "that kid" today. You know, the one that causes everyone to roll their eyes inwardly, but smile empathetically at you in a way that you can tell they're relieved it's not their kid? Yeah, that was me. And Piglet.

So we head to the car to go to the farm amid much whining. Piglet did not want to go to the farm. He did not like pumpkins. He did not like orange. He did not want a hay ride. I humor him as I loaded him in the car because I was thrilled that we were actually on time. I gaily tied and double knotted his shoes and even whistled a little. There might have been a slight kick of the ankles. Of course, since we were on time, you will not be surprised to know that as I was buckling Piglet into his carseat, I discovered that his crotch was wet.

Me: Did you pee in your pants?!
P: No!
Me: You JUST went potty. Why did you pee now?
P: I didn't. I peed on my pants when I was going potty.
Me: ?????
P: I missed?

I ran into the house, ran up the stairs, got more pants, more underwear, and raced back to the car. Unbuckle Piglet, untie shoes, remove shoes, remove pants [yes, we're right there in the driveway] underwear is dry - his story checks out. Sigh heavily. Pigpen, alone in the car, begins to wail. Put on new pants, put on shoes, retie shoes, rebuckle into car seat. Wipe sweat off of own brow. Throw sullied clothes across garage. Piglet still does not want to go to the pumpkin farm. Why are we doing this again?

We're now late. Drive 20 minutes to pumpkin farm. Other 3 adults, 6 boys, and 1 girl are waiting on us. Am THAT mom. Go to picnic tables to eat lunch. Piglet does not want to eat lunch. He does not want applesauce, pretzels or peanut butter crackers. He wants Pigpen's granola bar. And a juice box. I don't have a juice box, I am the mean mommy who brings water in a cup. Bo-ring! There is whining.

We at last finish lunch and walk over to a barn-like structure to peruse pumpkins and take potty breaks. Piglet is too short to stand at this potty. He refuses to sit. I stand him up on the seat and he aims at the water. Then, deciding that isn't as interesting he turns his man part into a fire hose and begins twirling it around, making loop de loops on the wall, toilet, floor, etc. He is elated over his newfound prowess. I am trying to figure out how to smack him in a way that won't alarm the other two mommies with perfectly well-behaved children just outside the stall. Pigpen crawls under the stall door and disappears.

"You want me to hold Pigpen?" calls another mommy.

"Um, yes, please!" I frantically wipe urine from every available surface while giving Piglet my patented-usually-reserved-for-the-grocery-store fingernail squeeze on the skin between his fingers. I think I've got him under control when he begins to yell, "UNCLE! UNCLE! MOMMY LET GO!" I wither.

We wash up, retrieve the wandering Pigpen and leave the restroom so the other mommies can talk about us properly. I decide to put Pigpen in the Bjorn (yes, he still fits at 16 months and 21 pounds) to a) prevent him from wandering away and b) have two hands free to handle Piglet, the Wondergrouch. As I'm loading Pigpen into the Bjorn, I hear a squeal. It's a mommyfriend, getting her ankle soaked by a spray of water. Why in the world is water spraying when it's 50 degrees and windy out here? I look around in annoyance and find Piglet, soaked from the waist down as a direct result of HIM turning on a random spigot that he found.

I turn off the spigot and take innumerable deep breaths. I seek my zen place. It's missing. Instead, I grit my teeth, squat down (Pigpen in Baby Bjorn! My thighs are solid! Who needs a gym when this is your day?) and yank his cold, wet pants down right there in the barn. Yes, I am white trash. I felt his underwear which was miraculously still dry again, again untied and removed the shoes and put on new, dry pants. Re-affixed and retied shoes, uttered many a threatening word regarding spigots under my breath at him and stood up. (Bjorn! 21 pounds!)

It was time for the hayride. Hooray. Piglet began to squeal and tried to run away.

P: I DON'T WANT TO GO ON THE HAYRIDE!
Me: Why?
P: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Me: It will be fun. You like tractors, you like trailers, you like farms. I paid two dollars. Let's go.
P: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Et cetera.

Everyone else was on the wagon praying we wouldn't get on. Ha ha ha....I just spent two bucks. We're SO going. I hefted Piglet up onto the wagon (Bjorn! 21 pounds! Pigpen!) and clamored aboard behind him. There was thrashing. There was wailing. Everyone awkwardly tried to make conversation about the farm as the other (7) kids stared at him. The tractor began to pull the wagon and he was fine. Suddenly, life's good. We survived the rest of the hayride, a trip to the pond to feed the fish, and a ride home. The rest of the day continued as can be expected, but I just had to share this one part. Just this one, tiny part of my day.

Tiny.