Most days, I'll tell you I wouldn't change much about motherhood. Usually, being with my kids is the absolute best part of my day. But, Gigi has a knack for the unusual. For a while, she had a blue self-inking stamp squirreled away somewhere in her room. She'd come downstairs with her knees, elbows, and forehead(!) covered in little blue stars. Eventually, she stamped the wall behind her crib too. Come to think of it, I never did find that stamp.
Every weekend, I unpack at least four different "purses" that she packed. A shoe (mine, missing since Tuesday), a hair bow, a half-eaten biscuit, and her favorite book--all packed and ready for her next adventure. Once, her daddy's phone was missing for at least a day. I asked her where if she knew where it was: "Yeah," she flipped her hair over her shoulder, "It's in da bag." "What bag?" I crossed my fingers that she'd know. Toes with chipped pink polish pattered down the hall, up the stairs, and into her room. "'Dis one!" she proudly held up a brown grocery bag, top folded carefully over to conceal her daddy's phone, among other things. (Or so the legend goes.).
But yesterday? Yesterday, she topped them all--so far anyway.
I picked her up at school to resounding reviews: "She had a great day! So much fun! Such a sweet girl!"
They say that because they don't have to clean her shoes. Or her shorts. Or her panties.
Yesterday we had swim lessons, at a public pool, with a public bathroom. It was wet--the floor, the walls, the potty--all wet. You get the idea.
This darling child started the waddle about 20 yards from the bathroom. "G," I implored, "you have got to put a wiggle on it--hurry up!"
"I pooped."
"No. You did not." This cannot be happening.
"I did."
Enter the public bathroom.
Commence the undressing. First the shoes came off. Huh. They were filled with sand and a few wood chips. Not too unusual for Gigi. Then came the shorts--turquoise and white striped with pockets. Gigi loves pockets. The pockets were filled with sand. Okay, we can deal with this. I rolled her shorts up, trying to keep Pebble Beach firmly embedded in the pockets. "Ooookay," I took a deep breath as I took in the scene. An apologizing three-year old standing in Elsa panties in a wet public pool bathroom stall. Elsa smirked at me as I started to disentangle chubby little legs only to find sand. So much sand. And poop. Sand and poop.
"Sorry mommy, I won't do that again."
No kidding.
I'm a mom. I can handle these things. All I needed was as little toilet paper (and maybe a teeny little martini...) and the roll was empty.
I politely and firmly pushed my way past a certainly scarred for life 7 year old girl to grab the one roll that languished in the floor of the first stall (we were in the third). I dabbed, rolled, and dusted. All the while, Elsa smirked at me. Joke's on her. Those panties will never be the same again.
Gigi's a spitfire. Supergirl. A twittering fairy-girl who gets into her fair share of messes.
Usually, I'll tell you I wouldn't change a thing about motherhood. This isn't usual. Then again, it makes for a pretty great story and an awfully funny memory.
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