There are certain things that, when young children are involved, are completely inevitable. It doesn’t matter how together you have it. How much of a “jump-start” you get on things. (Side note: Is that even possible with small children? Can you actually be so far ahead of the game that it qualifies as a jump-start? I have yet to experience this.)
I have started referring to these sanity sabotaging incidents as “the Inevitables.” And then I realized I was on to something. These Inevitables – they’re real. Tiny creatures lurking in the crevices of your home, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. And their powers are mind-boggling. They can defy gravity, lifting small children to new heights, namely those where you keep the things they shouldn’t touch. They can spontaneously fill the bladder of a child who has just taken a potty break and is now safely buckled into their car seat. They can move things closer to the edge of the counter so tiny hands can grab hold. And they can become invisible. I imagine they looks something like the Littles, from that cartoon I watched as a kid. Except the Littles were on a mission to help. The Inevitables are on a mission to destroy: your clean counter, your sense of security, your sanity.
The Inevitables of leaving the house
before 9:00 AM at any hour with small children.
- Their bladders will fill up at the precise moment you are heading out the door. You can take as many potty breaks as you want. Sit those tiny bums on the pot until your heart’s content. They will still have to pee as soon as you lock the door. And that’s if you’re lucky. Sometimes, when the Inevitables are in a particularly mischievous mood, they will wait until you’ve spent 10 minutes strapping your children in as though preparing for nuclear attack. And yes, this scenario is unavoidable. Because the Inevitables are out to get you.
- You’ve got it down. You gave yourself an extra 40 minutes to get everything ready so you could most definitely leave on time. Except you forgot that 20 minutes will be lost to the 14 interruptions you get while getting dressed that morning. Because Barbie is missing a shoe. Because the baby won’t share her board book. Because your pre-schooler wants a drink. Now, Mommy. She wants a drink NOW. Please, Mommy. Please. She wants a drink now, please. NO, NOW! And who puts them up to all those shenanigans? The Inevitables.
- The diaper blow-out. I’ve gotten good. I don’t mean to brag or anything, but after three kids, you learn: the LAST thing you do before leaving is get the baby dressed. This gives maximum time for her to produce a diaper explosion resembling the mushroom cloud effect of an atom bomb. And if she isn’t in her fancy church clothes, there’s no love lost. You needed to get her changed anyway. Except that the Inevitables know. They’re watching, and they know. So they use their super powers to hold off the atomic poop until just after you’ve put on the clean clothes. Oh, and did I mention it’s Easter Sunday? And you’ve now destroyed the pale pink lace ensemble she was supposed to wear, and the only clean item in the house are fleece footie pajamas. Thanks, Inevitables. Foiled again.
- They steal things. I’m not even kidding. The Inevitables wait. Until you’ve found your keys, and packed the diaper bag, and gotten everybody’s coat on. Until you’ve filled the bottle, grabbed your cell phone, and done your final inventory. Then suddenly, out of nowhere: Mommy, where’s my chi chi? (Side note: chi chi is the name for Goo’s blanket.) Seriously?!? You JUST had that thing! Where did you put it? We need to leave now, and you lost a giant, used to be light pink but is now grey and brown blanket. For years I blamed the child. Now I know. It’s those thieving Inevitables. They’re the ones who have been driving me mad by hiding the chi chi/bottle/sippie cup/ book I promised Punkin she could bring in the car. And, on occasion, my keys.
- They cause liquids to spontaneously jump out of their containers and onto your shirt. Or the baby’s shirt. Or Punkin’s shirt. It will hit someone’s shirt, trust me. Which used to make me all, “That’s okay. Don’t worry. Let’s go get another one.” Until I realize that, much like the footie pajama scenario, Punkin was wearing her last presentable shirt. And the only one left is the fluorescent floral one with the hem that won’t stay flat that’s made of material that you have iron on a cool setting. Except the cool setting never actually irons anything and you spend another 10 minutes saying terrible things to a household appliance while desperately trying to get out the door on time. Oh, and while all that was going on, the baby had an explosive poop. Again.