The Door of Despair...

In our house we have a secret passageway; a door that masks the presence of anyone beyond it.  More over a door to a room where people disappear.  Even more than that, it is a room that Charlie is completely afraid once you have entered you will never return, leaving him very distraught and beyond in the depths of despair.  I am talking, of course, of the bathroom.
     I am hiding in the bathroom as I write, momentarily escaping the madness that is my usual Monday trying to keep my wits and scribble out a short post about the mystery that is our master bath.  Having been in the bathroom many, many, many times himself, you would think the boy would have a better grasp of what happens to those who venture beyond it's doorway.  But he doesn't.  As soon as the bathroom door closes, no matter how gently or subtly, he will come running from the far reaches of the abode to make sure you are not lost forever.  And God forbid you lock the door behind you - utter madness.
     Having grown up in a house outnumbered by girls 3-2 and having been married for almost six years now, WITH three children who have all made it at least into toddler stage, I have a tendency to lock the bathroom whenever I am inside to protect my own privacy and the sanity of those around me.
     I know I'm not the only stay at home parent who uses the bathroom as sanctuary in times of crisis and hopelessness: I'm sure many of you have experienced the same need to escape at certain points during the day.  It's not so much a hide out as it is a momentary grasp on sanity; to be face to face with yourself for a moment and gather yourself.  I have tried to do this while Charlie sleeps, but it is almost impossible to map pit stops around the nap schedule my son may or may not adhere to on a daily basis.  It is increasingly more difficult to try to teach him that the bathroom is an exclusive party, with no plus one.
     However, as he grows older, it is becoming necessary for him to join me in the "break room" so he can learn to use the appropriate tools for his own calls of nature.  He is learning quickly, but still manages to stain the carpets and paint the tile floor yellow from time to time.  I have taught the girls to lock the door behind them, so as to deter their little brother from camping out with them, to which he has little or no response.  But if I or my wife lock the door behind ourselves, he completely loses his mind and bangs on the door, kicking it with all his might trying to save us from certain doom.
     When I unlock the door he flies through, at once calm and collected, with little to no regard for what is going on rather content to stare out the window; while seconds before he was trying to break through the impenetrable force field to make sure I haven't abandoned him to grow up on his own and fend for himself.

Age Translation

         I have found an unexpected instrument of language interpretation and translation: our six year old.
         Our two year old, Charlie, is apparently convinced every shoe in the house is dirty, or at least unsatisfactorily dry, and he has made it his loyal duty to make sure they all receive a proper wash in the plastic pool I nearly suffocated myself inflating.  During one of his many rescue/recon missions back into the house, he has spotted an unexpected delight on the kitchen counter: a bag of cookies.  He is drawn to the colored sprinkle covered cookie calling to him from the front of the package and has aborted his duty to shoe and country.  I try to explain to him that the bag is not, in fact, cookies, but powder that has to be made into cookies.  He is not pleased with my obvious efforts to distract and confuse him, insisting that i open the package at once and reward him with a cookie.

            Against my hardest convictions and earnest explanations, he is not convinced that the bag before him does not, as he suspects, contain cookies.  I mean, what cruel and unusual punishment would it be for the caretakers and authorities at home to put before him such a delectably inviting looking treat?  Why can he not simply rip open the bag and enjoy the cookies promised on the packaging?  Because, my son, the world is a cruel place.

            I have explained to him that it is just powder, not actual cookies; to which he has responded in his language, gesturing me to open it at once and prove it.  In lieu of cookie powder blanketing the kitchen, I hand him the bag and tell him to shake it.  He immediately sat down and tried to figure out the inhumane security measures that have been taken to ensure no one, especially him, can enjoy the tasty treats within. 

            Perplexed by his current predicament, he handed the bag back to me and asked me to open it.  I tried explaining once again that the contents of the misleading package are not what he really wants, offering a substitute of crackers and pretzels.  He doesn't want crackers or pretzels, though; his little heart is set on those damn cookies.  I am trying to avoid an all out tantrum, but I fear there is a storm brewing on the horizon. 

            He is gesturing maniacally, seated on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, slowing my dinner production to a stand still.  He is determined, willing to lay down his life , to have a cookie.  Despite my best efforts to appease him and discredit the obvious yet misleading picture strategically and mockingly placed on the face of the package, I cannot convince him that there are no cookies to be had.  He storms out of the kitchen and onto the porch where his sisters are playing quietly, undoubtedly pleading his case to the panel of small judges.

            Within minutes, they all stop what they are doing and find their seats at their little table.  With my three children seated around their Disney princess table like the council of Trent, they summon me to them with shouting and emphatic gestures.  Upon my arrival, my four year old informs me that, above everything else in the world, Charlie wants a cookie. 

            Thank you, Scarlett.  I am aware of this.

Ready to conduct their grueling cross examination of the witness, they demand answers as to why Charlie cannot have a cookie.  I quickly plead my defense, explaining to them that not only is it dinner time, but the cookies are not made, and produce exhibit A, the bag of mix, for them to examine and deliberate over.  My six year old clearly understands the situation, and stares ominously at Charlie waiting for him to come unglued.  

            I can see the confusion mounting on his chubby face; his brow angled in anger.  I try to hold him and show him, once again, that the bag is void of cookies, but he refuses and struggles to be free.  I look pleadingly at my daughters, begging them for any assistance they can offer.  I turn to my six year old and ask her to explain to her brother why we cannot have cookies, to which she says simply, “it’s for cooking”.
             I am shocked by my son's apparent satisfaction with the answer, but his frustration evaporates like he has had a sudden moment of clarity and he quickly collects himself and goes about his business of making sure the rest of the shoes make it into the pool safely.

            How often the simple solution can evade us.  "It's for cooking".  Now why couldn't I have thought of that?  Why did I have to go through the rigors and trials of explaining the scientific differences between the cookies we eat and the mixes they derive from?  Why do we find ourselves struggling day by day to explain things as simply as possible?  Because we don't think like six year olds.  We don't see the simplicity in life or the uncomplicated view of childhood.  We are too busy worrying about the stresses and setbacks of adulthood to remember and appreciate the freedom and levity of being a child.

Saturday Morning

     I am awoken by a small chin digging into my face and petite head of hair draped across my eyes, the owner of which is screaming "apple juice" into my sleeping ears at the top of his lungs.  Saturdays at our house are worse than any other day of the week; our weekly "pancake day", it is a veritable display of screaming, cranky, and naked children with the occasional tear, a fistfight over who gets the "pink" plate, and one or more pencil wounds.
     So far, having only been awake for thirty seconds, I have been knighted; turned into a frog; named queen of the castle; kissed mommy to see if she will wake up like Sleeping Beauty, (to our daughters' disappointment she did not); exterminated three spiders and one unwilling cockroach; played fire breathing dragons with Charlie as we chased the girls out of their room; and been told that I should wear the pink bow instead of the purple one, "because the purple one is for girls, and the pink one is for boys."
     With Charlie in one ear and Scarlett and Ava (alternately) in the other, it becomes increasingly difficult to make decisions and apply deductive reasoning.  Ava is telling Scarlett to pay attention to her while Scarlett is yelling at Charlie to look at her picture and Charlie is yelling at me to find him more wet wipes, his new favorite keepsake.
     With mommy in bed and no backup in the foreseeable future, I withdraw myself to the kitchen, where it becomes apparent that none of them will agree on breakfast, either.  I make the requested pancakes, eggs, and pop tart, brandishing my spatula like a shield against the onslaught of little fists and tired voices tugging at my shirt tails all vying for my undivided attention.
     It becomes a battle between man, pan, and child: trying to avoid flipping hot flapjacks onto my daughters or hitting my son in the face while his tantrum at my feet sets me off balance and I stutter step over their squirming bodies as they lay waste to yet another unproductive morning.
     While pancakes seem to quell their immediate desires, bacon becomes an instrument of disappointment altogether.  With Charlie clinging to my leg like a koala bear, they fight over which plate should be given to whom, agreeing that everyone has had the same plate "forever", even though these particular plates have never been used.  When I venture to cook bacon, usually only after mommy joins us for our morning Olympics  I select only enough for the two of us to enjoy.  Ava will pitch a pout fest until she is granted a slice of the heavenly smoked meat, while Scarlett and Charlie will fight over it, only to leave it abandoned, recklessly cast aside as they scamper off to torture each other elsewhere.
     Therefore, I try to resist making bacon with the kids in the house, because I can't bring myself to watch it being disgraced this way.  They nibble at their plates, picking at their breakfasts like chickens pecking at corn, savoring the syrup doused fluffy pancakes as if this was their last meal and they will never see pancakes again in their lives; relishing the moment and plotting their escape, staring forlornly at the living room, desperate to break the bonds of kitchen torment and tackle each other on the field of battle in front of the TV.
     It is the same every Saturday.  We wake up far too early, excited to play dress up and fight imaginary beasts, ready to take on the day and jump at each other determining whether breakfast will be eaten or beaten into one another with fists full of syrup and greasy fingers of meat murder while Scarlett tugs at me telling me that Charlie "stinks" again...just another beautiful Saturday morning.