My life preserver is the most wonderful, loving, gluttonforpunishment of a baby sitter, Crissy, who’s in the select club of adults capable of wrangling our crazy kids.  Every time she leaves, I cross my fingers so hard that they cramp, hoping she’ll find it in her heart to return.  The grandparents don’t like us enough to relocate, so life with Crissy gives me some “freedom.”

Crissytime means:

• A date! If Keith and I can shake off our sleep deprived stupor, we grab dinner then, gasp, go buck wild and hit up the supermarket kid free!!!  Sometimes even Target!!!  Hot tip here- It’s good to recall that you genuinely like your spouse, and an occasional date night convo without the words poop, snot or these mother f…..rs are driving me crazy, may not spark your sex drive, but will soften your desire to stab one another.
• One less kid! The ability to tote the offspring to appointments and activities without dragging the baby by her pacifier.
• A piping hot shower! Only when I really, really stink. Don’t be jelly.  It doesn’t wash off my momguilt for sticking the kids with our sitter to cleanse.
• One-on-one outings!  So the kids don’t grow into broody adults who hate my guts for playing favorites. I know, fat chance this strategy works, but it’s worth a shot.

Last week, Jackson and I hit up his two favorite joints for or one-on-one, Starbucks and the library.  I trained him well, right??? I’ll take a latte over Chucky-Germ-Filled-Cheese any day.  Here’s how we roll- I treat him to organic chocolate milk, which is big time because I’m, let’s say “rigid,” when it comes to sweets (meet my hyped-up kids who act like I’ve hooked them to IVs dripping Red Bull, and you’ll get it). Next, we go torture the library’s train table.  Train playing is not my jam, but Jackson sits there endlessly creating, destroying, and rerouting tracks.  I valiantly fake interest in Gordon’s tender train car and hide my Facebook addiction by covertly peeking at my phone.  Mom’s favorite library activity is called “RESCUE ME.”  Here’s how you play:

• 1) Pounce on adult or tween who appears semi-open to conversing
• 2) Ask open-ended question, any question
• 3) Attempt to engage in full sentence exchange with complex vocabulary
• 4) When other player tries to run, quick, new question
• 5) Never abort mission, instead, compliment the crap out of player’s kid/s (note technique won’t work well with nannies)

This visit, we also select three fascinating books about dump trucks, sigh.  Then head home for a thrilling night full of baths, breastfeeding, and bedtime stalling.  On the relaxing drive, Jackson is bleating like a goat “I’m hungry, I’m so, so hungry, HUNGRYYYYYY,” plus rubbing humongous circles on his tummy for effect.  To avoid a collision (though that could mean I total the minivan…hmmmm….), I pull over and shut his mouth by handing him a carrot along with a library book.  He grumbles about the carrot but starts munching, so I bravely continue homewards.  “Mom take this!  I’m done!”  Jackson, seriously, we have this conversation about the minivan every drive.  My arm is too stumpy to reach your seat, and if I turn around to look, it will result in an OJ style incident where I’m so distracted, I won’t see police chasing my weaving butt down.

“Jax, I can’t take it right now.  Just throw it out the window. The animals will eat it.”  I slam the button, rolling down the ginormous minivan window, to make room for the carrot remains. “Mom, I can’t.”  God, the whining!!!  “Just do it!!!! It’s fine. The animals will eat it.”  He obliges.  I glance out the passenger side window just in time to witness something whizzing by that is not in the vegetable family. In fact, it looks an awful lot like an informative library book about dump trucks.  “DAMNN ITTTTT.”  Jackson cowers deep in his seat, and my surge of I’m a suckycursingmom guilt kicks right in.   “Mom, are you mad?”   I collect myself, slap on my Pioneer Woman* smile and voice, and sing “Oh nooooo, of course not sweeeetie pie (gross). Mommy told you to throw it out the window (code for your mom’s an idiot).”  I grope for the hazards (not in an intuitive spot, Toyota), turn the van around, and creep the side of the curvy and trafficky road.  Jackson and I both scan lawn after lawn, but no sign of the library’s precious property.  I finally yank the van over, leave Jackson whining about dinner, and make a last ditched recon effort on foot to resurrect the book, but no dice.  The book is gone**- we had it in our grasp, but it will never be- sort of like the elusive Escalade, clean kitchen, full night’s sleep…you get it.  Damn.

I’m diving into my chakras, doing some deep breathing, and calling forth some positivity here.  For once, my kid listened when I told him to do something.  And, I did decently keeping my momcool if I do say so myself.  So here’s the moral: props to all my stressed homies out there for avoiding your gangster ways when you’re fuming in your minivan, your boss’ office, the slowest check out line, your mother-in-law’s house, since it’s easier and momentarily much, much, much more satisfying to hurl a string of expletives, lay the smack down, or just come entirely undone.

* http://www.foodnetwork.com/shows/the-pioneer-woman/recipes Come on!  Look at that smile, even with four kids and a whole slew of ranch hands to stuff full of fatty food. And her freakyclean fridge just kills me.

** If you happen to run or mow over a stray, mangled library book, please return it.  I’ll treat you to Starbucks and a lengthy conversation.