Today wasn't one of them.
Instead, I want to remember what would have likely happened instead.
I hope to remember when my little mop head requested to eat Kashi [read: little puffy nuggets of sweetened cardboard.] for breakfast for several mornings in a row.
I hope to remember that the only way carrots were appetizing to eat was to refer to them as 'snowman noses'.
I hope to remember that when I secretly water down my children's orange juice, they don't notice a thing.
I hope to remember that when I secretly water down my children's orange juice, they don't notice a thing.
I hope to remember how encouraging I was with my budding artist by providing her with crayons and coloring book pages.
I hope to remember--sad, but true--the accidental sacrifice of my coffee table that served its purpose well from the exploration of a new art medium. (Crayons vs. markers? No contest.)
I hope to remember snowy afternoons, just him and me, sledding down the hill in our backyard during his sister's nap time.
I hope to remember the fragility of her tiny body when she sobbed in my arms after jamming her mouth against the bedroom windowsill and later doing a face-plant into the driveway.
I hope to remember that to her, I am her favorite parent. Most of the time. For now.
I hope to remember providing lunchtime entertainment to two beaming faces (correct interpretation: "Is our Mom insane?") by cranking out the running man to Ne-yo's "Mad."
I hope to remember providing lunchtime entertainment to two beaming faces (correct interpretation: "Is our Mom insane?") by cranking out the running man to Ne-yo's "Mad."
I hope to remember when I shared with them their first Twinkie--a favorite childhood treat of mine.
I hope to remember the days they get along...
those constant hugs,
kisses,
sibling smotherings,
and the way they get the other one to giggle.
I hope to remember them as they are now...
so small,
inquisitive,
innocent,
generously loving,
forgiving,
and perfect in my eyes.
BUT.
Let's not remember what really happened today, February 29th, 2012, the day that will forever reign in utmost infamy.
Diary. No, not that word...a word with foul and rank connotations (and no, I am not correctly spelling it out).
Diary during toilet training. Diary every five minutes when he asks to use toilet. Diary in underwear. Diary all over my bathroom floor. Diary like the Nile. Diary as if it were bottled up in air freshener. Diary for two full days and counting. Diary so stinkin' much--no pun intended--that I was begging him to wear diapers.
[Warning: the following information may be extremely inappropriate, but necessary to get a certain point across.]
Me: That's it. No more underwear. You need to wear a diaper today. You're sick.
Him: No diapers, Mom! I want un'wear.
Me: No underwear today. You've got sick poo. When your sick poo is gone and you start making snake poo again, then you can wear your underwear.
There are a lot of things I can handle. But not this. An unyielding child who previously refused potty training in every thinkable way, and now this? Perfect timing.
It's a good thing a day like this happens every four years. I can accept that. Don't convince me otherwise. Happy Leap Day!
