By Kristie Larsen
The day started out rough enough: my two kids woke up way too early considering their 10 P.M. bedtime the night before, my car had to be moved for street sweeping, and I didn’t have time for a shower. By all indicators, the morning was clearly a recipe for disaster.
Puffy-eyed and disoriented, we trailed to the car trying to rustle up energy and an idea for what to do on this early morning. We only had to kill an hour or so, but I decided to go shopping anyway. In part for the calmness that driving brings, and in part for the need to do something for me. All in all, a bad, bad idea.
After getting to the mall, I picked up a cute black dress, but because of a tantruming kid, I didn’t have time to try it on. I picked out my size, purchased it, and left. This is something I never do, because it always backfires. This day was no different.
We finally got home after a lot of driving and a quick stop at the ice cream store. I tried on the dress. The dress was too small. I instantly regretted the ice cream and then wondered… “Do I find a new store with my size and exchange it today or do I stuff the dress in the bedroom corner and let it sit for who-knows-how-long until I get time to exchange it?”
I contemplated the rest of the day. I had nothing planned. My second son, Cache, already had a nap, so I got the crazy idea to take the short subway trip into the city to a new location and exchange the dress.
At first, things went well, or at least I dealt with the situation well. I got the right size, watched the kids hide in the clothing racks, tried on jewelry, which lead to me reprimanding the boys and a few more tantrums while in line. We then quickly darted for the door just as I noticed the tropical rainstorm swelling outside. We decided to run for it, but it didn’t come lightly. The rain was dumping on us and I lost my shoe in a puddle in the street.
Plastic flip-flops + rainstorm = lameness.
I ditched my children with a stranger on the corner and returned to the street to fetch my shoe. We waited in the ATM vestibule of a bank for what seemed like hours. The kids were running crazy, ripping up deposit slips, drawing on the tables, and punching the buttons on the ATM.
The rain had not stopped, still. My first son, Ronin, informed me he had to go potty. “NOW?!?!?!” I inquired. “Yes, now, now, now!” He screamed. All at once, I was dizzy with the question, “Where is the closest bathroom?” One of the constant problems in New York City is that there are no public bathrooms, no matter where you are.
I figured there had to be one in the mall where we were just shopping, so we crossed back over the same street as I held tightly to my flip-flops. The mall was under construction. No bathrooms. Of course. Back outside. It was still raining. And when I say raining, I mean torrential downpour. Before living in New York, I never knew rain could be like that. Drops so large, they’re blinding.
I decided to check in the subway station and maybe walk over to the Path Train station. There had to be bathrooms there, right?
We got down the subway stairs, but not before I yelled at someone for being upset that Ronin was decending them too slow. “He’s a kid!!!” I screamed. “Get a grip!” I hope that stranger thought long and hard about how rude he was, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t care. Ronin was oblivious and I was fuming.
We walked to the Path Train and asked every police officer there– around 5 or so– where the bleedin’ bathrooms were. They didn’t know. They pointed to each other. They were all stupid. A train worker pointed up the stairs and said to try McDonald’s. We walked up stairs only to find a door that lead right back outside… into the rain.
I was furious at this point. We had walked two blocks underground and were now only that much further away from the subway entrance… again. It was still a torrential downpour and Ronin was now asking if he could just pee outside. I had given up trying to find the bathroom and figured we would just have to make a run for home. But we still had to retrace those same blocks, holding onto the flip-flops with my toes, yelling at people with umbrellas to get out of the way (they were not in any hurry), and find our way back down the subway stairs. We finally made it to the train and Ronin said (loudly) that he had peed in his pants.
I wasn’t mad. I didn’t blame him. I would have done the same.
On the train there were quite a few people shocked at our condition. We were completely drenched. Cache had food in his hair, Ronin’s shorts were completely soaked, and they were both freezing.
After one stop, a woman offered me a clean hand towel from her purse. It was white, fluffy, and smelled like fabric softener. We took it with a smile. It felt really good. It was straight from Heaven just like she was. The kids got partially dry and were as happy as could be for the rest of the ride. It had finally stopped raining by the time we got home. Ronin said he loved the rain as he ran to the toilet.
I figured we were home-free as far as problems of the day were concerned. We got the bath started. I decided to actually sit down to take a load off, when I heard Ronin screaming from the bathroom. I ran in to find poop floating around their ankles. Cache was pointing and explaining what he had done, all in baby talk. I couldn’t find the wipes. I couldn’t find the tub cleaner. I was surprised I could even find myself by this point.
We got cleaned up and I realized I had no plans for dinner and Dad would be walking through the door any minute. When he finally arrived, I ditched him with both kids, and no food. I walked glass-eyed to the couch and opened the computer. I was pretty sure he had a hard day, too, but by that point, I just didn’t care. Time passed, how much was unclear to me. The kids were finally in bed, but giggling to each other. My husband, Patrick, had finished the dishes. I still couldn’t move and didn’t intend to. But I tried to shake the day off.
As I documented the day, I realized how ridiculous it all was. How silly the choices were that I made as a mom of two in a huge city. Certain things could have been avoided by checking the weather, going pee before leaving the house, or choosing to visit the park over the mall.
Other things made my inner tigress growl in defense of my children. I realized that even as an adult I can get as irrational as a 3-year-old and can throw a pretty impressive tantrum. I marveled at the fact that no matter what I may plan, having children as my traveling companions on this journey we call life will always alter what I anticipate. Sometimes life dishes out obstacles that I can only laugh at, because if I didn’t, I would cry. And for the most part, the things I encounter can be handled with a good dose of love and a sense of humor.
Finally, right before my bedtime, I checked on both boys. They were sound asleep, strung across their beds, drooling, grasping at stuffed animals, blankets and toys. I couldn’t help but grin. After a day like that, there was nothing else I could do. As I gazed at those little cherubs sleeping, I felt a swell in my heart and kissed them both with such intense love, I thought I might burst.
What a sweet thing it is to be a mother. In those quiet moments, I feel my spirit and body infused with the ability to take on the next day with a bit more grace and more love for my children.
Kristie Larsen
Kristie Larsen
Valhalla, NY
Kristie is currently a stay-at-home mother of two boys with one baby on the way. In between naps and feeding, she blogs, creates handmade cards, and participates in general childhood mayhem. She resides in New York with her husband, Patrick, and boys, Ronin and Cache.
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