Confession: I may be a White Trash Woman

Confession: I may be a White Trash Woman

Parenting books, magazines and Hollywood love to expound on the Terrible Twos. And, truly, they are shocking, but not necessarily for the toddler’s erratic behavior. They are shocking to the parent because, for the first time in their young progeny’s life, the child has gone from a fairly controllable and malleable little life form to a creature who has realized it is not compelled to exist only for its parent, a realization the creature then puts into practice with that all-powerful magic word, ‘No!’

This is not enjoyable for the parent, who thought that the demanding, squalling, messy, bodily-fluid-expelling small creature was quite a bit of work before this magical power was realized and exerted so energetically. Still, most first-time parents believe the myth of ‘Two’ and start anticipating the 3rd birthday the way their children anticipate Happy Meals and Santa Claus.

What experienced parents know, and new parents unfortunately learn, is Santa has to spend HOURS removing toys from stupid impossible-to-open plastic packaging on Christmas Eve, Happy Meal toys are really annoying sound-things that don’t die even if you wash them OR are lovely toys that break before you’re out of the parking lot AND: Three is truly Terrible. By Three, the child has mastered the “NO!” and learned to add whatever behavior pushes every button their parent has. Worse, they are able to adapt their bad behavior to the care provider. Thus, my children have learned to throw screaming, kicking, twisting tantrums while getting dressed for my husband, but whiny, crying, running-away tantrums for me while I do their hair. Pouting quietly in a corner aggravates Grandma and happily going to time-out annoys every Pre-School teacher in this modern don’t-spank society who needs to hold Time Out as the King of All Punishments…not some joyful game.

Three is not fun. Three is independent, cute-as-a-button-and-I-know-it, Kid Time. It is the early childhood equivalent of thirteen.

Magical knowledge points to the number 3 as the most sacred of numbers. So do most major religions.

I believe parents of 3-year-olds probably created this in the hopes that by imbuing it with mystical powers, they would mystically be able to control their 3-year-old children.

Hot Minivan Moms know that there is no control in parenting. There is anticipation of needs, negotiation of demands, suggestion of behavior and reaction to the unpredictable. Children’s senses are as highly refined as an animal’s; the moment they sense you are trying to control them, they will begin evasive maneuvers. Usually they will win.

It was the Power of Three that caused me to descend to levels I to which had sworn I would never sink. I should know better than to say ‘never’. After all, a list of things I swore—at the tender age of 22—I would never do includes:

1. Go to dinner before 7:30 (we now shoot for those early-bird 5:00-before-the-children-self-destruct specials in noisy restaurants with vinyl booths and hard-surface floors that mop up quickly after the inevitable beverage spill)

2. Drive a station wagon (I have owned 2 Subaru Outbacks…the sporty version of a station wagon…and this was before children!)

3. Drive a minivan (traded in the station wagon for 2nd row captain’s chairs and a third row bench for combined seating for 7)

4. Have plastic surgery (22-year-olds cannot fathom the power of gravity)

5. Say, ‘because I said so!’, ‘don’t make me pull this van over!’, or ‘no, I don’t want to go to that club…the music is just too loud!’

6. And, the one I broke just the other day, ‘my children will never go out in public barefoot in their pajamas with their hair un-combed.’

Ha ha ha! Here’s how it happened. I was rolling 3-kids-deep in the minivan (had a kid-on-loan because, after all, once you have 2 with you, you may as well just add more). We stopped for gas when my 3 year old screamed, “I need to Potty!!!! I need to Potty!!!! I need to Potty!!!”.

As every teacher, parent of 2+ kids and flight attendant knows, Potty is contagious. As soon as Jennifer announced this, the other 2 children screamed for Potty as well.

Normally, I would handle this with the blasé calm all Minivan Moms must master. But this morning was unique. It was 7:30 am on a Saturday and I had tossed all of the children in the van for an emergency coffee-and-donut run (don’t ask…it had been a LOOONNNGG week and Mama was in need of some good old caffeine and saturated, sugary fat therapy…plus a few not-organic-and-healthy-bribes to keep the kids quiet for 10 minutes so that I could enjoy the aforementioned vices). When I made the call to go out on an emergency supply run, I was faced with the age-old problem: do I spend 45 minutes getting 3 children dressed, shoed and ready just to go thru a Starbucks drive-thru, or do I just toss them in the car in their pajamas and GO?

I chose GO.

Unfortunately, Minivans do not GO without gas. My husband and I have an on-going, passive-aggressive war about gas. We both hate filling up the cars. There is no logical reason for this. Hell, we don’t even PAY for our own gas—my rich grandmother gifts us with a gas card whose payments are magically made the first of every month from her huge bank account. But something about the smelly, dirty process just revolts both of us. Thus, we drive the cars until they are on fumes and the person behind the wheel at the time is forced to stop and fill up. Or call AAA from the side of the road.

This morning, I lost the Gas Battle.

And so, my Starbucks run was interrupted by a quick stop at the Carson Valley Chevron. No big. Annoying. Smelly. Rather creepy (really, where do all the freaks who inhabit gas stations and Wal-marts come from???). But on the grand scale, not such a big deal.

Until the Potty Announcement. Allow me to defend myself; although the children were in nightgowns and their hair resembled the fur of various woodland creatures, I HAD insisted all go Potty before leaving the house.

I’m lazy, passive-aggressive when it comes to fueling vehicles and addicted to bad substances like processed sugar and coffee harvested in ‘developing nations’ by poor little children with permanently-coffee-bean-stained fingers and heartbreaking faces, but I’m not stupid. I know that small girls MUST potty before getting in the car, even for a 10 minute round trip.

I even checked the toilets for evidence of successful Potty.

Didn’t matter. Jen had to GO…and now they all had to go. The urge to Potty, as every parent, teacher and flight attendant knows, is contagious.

Shit.

I am very chagrined to admit that I considered allowing, ahem, ‘nature’ to take its course and see if they could hold it until we were home. But 1. that’s not good parenting and 2. those damn carseat covers are a real pain in the ass to take off and wash.

So I grabbed the two small children (remember: no shoes) and told Kate she had to walk. Barefoot. Thru the gas station parking lot, into the disgusting convenience store, and—Oh Horror!—into the bathroom. In my defense, this is one of the cleaner gas stations.

You know, sorta like the first layer of Hell isn’t all THAT bad for eternal damnation.

Kate is a smart little 5-year-old. She looked at me in the charming ‘are you fucking kidding me, Mom?” way only your own children can and asked, ‘Can’t I just wait in the car”

“Don’t you have to potty?”

“Not bad enough.” Hmm. Mommy Dilemma. I wouldn’t want to go barefoot, either. I’d give her MY shoes, but I’m a size 6-adult, and she’s a size 6-kid. Not going to work. However, my husband is a cop and leaving children unattended in a car in a gas station parking lot is not only Evil Parenting, it’s quite illegal.

Making your child walk barefoot in her nightgown into a gas station bathroom is only Evil Parenting.

The lesser of two evils won. Mainly because I don't want to go to jail. You have to wear orange jumpsuits in jail. And they don't let you wear panties. And you have to pee in front of people. Ugh.

And so I gave my 5-year-old daughter my best, ‘I am the Mom and you WILL obey me and I’m so very very sorry that the Good Lord felt the need to give you to me because other parents are much better but we’re just stuck with it and I’ll give you an extra donut as penance, Kid” look and off we went.

I put the automatic clip-thingy on the stupid, gross, germy gas nozzle, plopped the two pre-schoolers on my hips (they were chortling gleefully—kids sense their parent’s embarrassment and drink it in like it’s the Elixir of Life), coerced Kate to run with me (germs and White-Trash-ness don’t stick to bare feet if you run fast enough) and off we sprinted to the bathroom. Kate grimaced the whole way. As did I; remember: I had 55 pounds of chortling, squirmy, nightgown-clad, have-to-pee-NOW little girls balanced on my hips.

Like Olympic sprinters, Kate and I dashed into the bathroom, tore open the handicapped door (at this point, I’m already going to Hell so I may as well use the big stall), got the toilet seat cover on—‘don’t TOUCH ANYTHING!!!”—panties down, kid on the seat and….

No potty.

“Come on, Jennifer, honey, go.”

“Pee-pees not coming out, Mama.”

“Try, baby.”

Child squirming to get off the seat. Mother noticing unidentified Ickiness in the corner of the stall. Mother hopes Ickiness will not move or somehow infect the other residents of the stall.

“Jennifer, stop moving, GO POTTY.”

“Don’t have to, Mama!”

“You’re killing me, kid.”

Oh, and guess what? NOT having to go potty is also contagious. None of the children had to go.

I didn’t swear out loud. I promise I didn’t. But the woman with no teeth who was washing her hands and enjoying the show still laughed at me.

Whore.

Seriously. This is Nevada. I’m pretty sure she was one of our fine, legal-so-we-can-tax-sex, only-in-Nevada whores.

I have now crossed off another ‘never’ on my list: expose my children to an actual proprietor of the World’s Oldest Profession. In a fucking gas station bathroom. The worst part is, I’m pretty sure in a comparison line up, I looked like the lower-class citizen in this scenario. She didn’t have teeth, but she WAS wearing shoes…clear plastic stilettos with rhinestones on the heel.

I glared at the whore, repeated the gas-station-bathroom-dash back to the car, used Baby Wipes to disinfect all little feet, fingers, asses and toes (used half the pack on poor Kate's feet), finished the whole gas routine and sped my way to Starbucks.

Consumed 2 London Fog Soymilk Lattes With Extra Whip, 1 Apple Fritter, 1 glazed Top Pot Donut and a plum (you know, to be healthy) and collapsed on the toilet seat lid while the kids took a cleansing, very long, very bubbly bath.

I am horrified. Not only am I going to Mommy Hell, I’m going to have to sit in the Reserved For White Trash Mothers section.