Levedy

Lord of the Flies

I had a lovely outing this weekend. Did you hear that? OUTING, as in OUT, suckers! I had lunch with a friend I met through the blogoshphere. True, I did talk about kids and breast pumps incessantly, ignoring the eye rolls of the kid-less folks at the table (sorry, Brian and Claudia!) I had a very nice time, even though I got the feeling that people were putting up with my company rather than enjoying it at times.

While I really enjoy Claudia's repartee, and she did not disappoint, I was most looking forward to meeting Sweetcoalminer. I have been reading her blog for a long time now, and after reading her posts of career woman-turned-stay at home mom amidst many Stepford L.A. mommies, I felt like she was a real kindred spirit, in the words of Anne Shirley. Any woman who can belt out a good toddler poop blowout story without putting down her Panini is a kindred spirit to me, indeed. I felt quite bashful to be meeting her in person, a little like a peeping Tom who is invited in off the branch, but I had a really enjoyable time, and I was grateful for the THREE WHOLE HOURS on my own. THREE, suckers!

Of course, there is a price to be paid for all good things. I came home to a wigged out husband, and feral, naked children. I swear, whenever I leave the kids with my husband, things quickly devolve into Lord of the Flies at the house. The kids are snot-streaked and naked, the downstairs looked like a confetti truck got teabagged by a Toys R Us truck, and the cat was making eyes at a poopy diaper left on the changing station.

I was gone three hours, not three weeks. I realize that I'm the only thing keeping the trains running on time around here. I come home to a frazzled husband because I committed the GRIEVOUS SIN of leaving for three hours without a cell phone. (Not that I need a defense here, because I don't, but I told Dim the name of the restaurant and left the web page up on my computer. He totally could have called the restaurant in an emergency, but whatever. All he had to do was keep the kids breathing for three hours.)

I'm sounding a bit pissy here, aren't I? I'm not, really. It just amuses me how one-sided the situation is. I don't have the luxury of phoning my husband after three stressful hours of Nintendo and cheese puffs to demand that he stop what he's doing to come home and relieve me. I can't just "babysit" my kids.

So I got home, wiped off snot, started a load of diapers, and got the trains running again. I managed to do it with a calm voice and a smile on my face, even though a bit of ass chewing would have been justified. I think my husband could use more solo time with the three kids, and not just in a keep-them-alive-until-the-wife-returns way. It might give him a taste of the flaming-chainsaw juggling act that is raising three young children. He doesn't have to do laundry, or dishes, or meal prep, but doing more than parking their butts in front of the Nintendo or ferrying them over to his mother's house is in order, I think.