Must...Not...Kill...Child...

Ok, you know how you love your children,

BUT...?

That's where I'm at right now. I've calmed down a bit, but it's still pretty fresh in my mind.

Let's go back to yesterday. Well, really, back a little farther. I am constantly having to remind Beebie to put her dirty clothes down the laundry chute. CONSTANTLY. I probably tell her at least once a day, and she rolls her eyes and acts all put out by the fact that I'm trying to make sure the child has clean clothes to wear. Yes, I'm such a bitch.

Her bedroom is directly across the hall from the aforementioned laundry chute. She could probably lean out her bedroom door and stretch her arm out and put her dirty clothes down the chute without even leaving her room.

Every time I ask her if all of her dirty clothes are in the basement she sighs loudly and says Yesssssss, mutherrrrr... in a totally rude and disrespectful tone. And yet, somehow, when I do the laundry, there's almost nothing of hers in the basket. How can this be?

Because she uses her bedroom floor as a staging area. And when I put the clean clothes on her bed to put away, she puts them on the floor, on top of the dirty clothes that she was supposed to put down the chute, and so they're sitting there all together in the same pile, waiting for me to get so pissed off I scream at a volume loud enough to motivate her to do what I've been asking her nicely to do all along.

So she puts ALL of the clothes away in her dresser, even the dirty ones, and then when we have about five seconds before we have to be somewhere, she comes out of her bedroom dressed and ready to go in a t-shirt with a ketchup stain so large and obvious you wonder if perhaps she may have been shot in the chest without her knowledge.

Beeb, go change your shirt! Hurry!

(tounge-clicking sigh) I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING CLEAN!!!!

What do you MEAN you don't have anything clean?!!!?? You told me you put all your dirty stuff down the chute and I washed everything that was down there!

Excuse me for wanting to convey to the world the fact that you have a mother who takes care of you, not one who squirts you with ketchup before she sends you out the door. Like it or not, kid, YOU'RE MY MOTHERHOOD RESUME.

Cut to yesterday, when we were getting stuff ready for Beeb to go on her trip to Nana and PopPop's this morning. The day before, she and I had spent an hour and a half and $50 at Limited Too looking for clothes she could take. She decided to wear her favorite new outfit yesterday, to get her hair cut.

After the haircut, we went home so she could change out of her shirt. She, of course, put on another of her new shirts. Fine. Whatever, just get the hairy one off or you'll get all itchy. She spent the afternoon packing her suitcase and carry-on. We discussed the things she'd need to pack - deodorant, pajamas, underwear, etc., and because she went last year I figured she was a big enough kid to pack her own shit.

Beeb, figure out what clothes you want to take, and if they're dirty, put them down the chute now because I'm only going to have time to do one load, okay???

(tounge-click, sigh, growl) FINE!!

Geez, sorry... I guess I'll stop bugging you and go do your laundry, then.

So I did the laundry, and this morning, about five minutes before we were supposed to leave, she walks into my bedroom...

in the shirt that she got her hair cut in.

Beeb, did I wash that?

Well, no, but I didn't wear it the whole day...

But you got your HAIR CUT in it, honey! Why do you think I told you to take it off when we got back from Fantastic Sam's??? I TOLD you to put ALL your dirty stuff down the chute, Beeb!

It's not just that she didn't do what I said; it's that she didn't do what I said, TOLD ME SHE DID DO WHAT I SAID, and then, when confronted, came up with some stupid reason why she didn't HAVE to do what I said.

Seriously, why do I say anything at all? Why the fuck am I on this planet? Nobody ever listens to me.

My God, why can't people just DO what I tell them???? Life would be SO much simpler!!

Countdown to departure time, T minus 2 minutes.

Beeb, did you pack a book? I told her yesterday to pack a book.

I'm taking my MP3 player.

Oh, is that what they're calling books now?
Did you pack a BOOK?

No...

PACK A BOOK. It was all I could do not to insert the word "fucking" in that sentence.

We still hadn't left the house yet. I still have all that find-a-parking-space, ticket-counter-line, security-line, find-the-gate, get-in-the-pre-board-line stress ahead of me. And that shit's stressful even when everything goes flawlessly.

But you know that nothing in my life goes flawlessly, right? If it did, I'd have nothing to blog about, and my life would be empty and meaningless.

We leave the house as planned, at 6:30, make a stop at the ATM and the gas station and get to the airport at 7:05. Her flight left at 8:35. Plenty of time. We were in good shape. We got a fantastic parking space, miraculously (remember this detail), and after we sailed through the ticket counter line and the line where you drop off your checked baggage, I figured the planets had aligned and the morning's drama was behind us.

And then, we got in the security gate line.

It was a long line, but moving rather quickly. Beeb and I were talking about the things that she was going to do with my parents, and then the TSA dude started bellowing the new rules for carrying on liquids and whatnot, so I turned to Beeb and asked her,

Do you have any liquid in your backpack?

Nope!

Great, then just take your shoes off and put your bag in the box and we'll get to the gate in plenty of time. It was about 7:45 at that point.

You know it's bad when you don't see your bag, and several uniformed people are staring and pointing at a small TV screen.
It can't be good.

They pulled THIS out of Beeb's bag.



I gave that child a look that, I hope, conveyed Please don't think I'm above kicking your ten-year-old ass right here in front of all these people.

LIQUID. Is there LIQUID, was the question.

Like Nana and PopPop CARE what you smell like!

Oh, and the other funny part is that this body spray apparently met the loose definition she'd had in mind when I asked her if she had packed DEODORANT.

Gaddammit, Beeb... I whispered, my fists clenched so tight my knuckles were white.

Since I wasn't going to be getting on the plane, they offered me the opportunity to take the contraband American Girl body spray to my car. So I did. I could have let them throw it away, and if I hadn't had a rock star parking space, I probably would have, but what can I say - I'm NICE.

I left her in a chair outside the Security Gate (which, under the circumstances, I figured was safer than her staying with me) and walked back to my car, cursing my child under my breath the whole way there and back.

The security line grew while I was gone. FUCK.

At 8:15 I finally got through the line for the second time, picked Beeb up, and very sternly (and completely unnecessarily) said, DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN.

I was SEETHING. I was trembling and about to cry, I was so pissed.

We found the gate, got in the preboard line and I had a chance to calm down a bit. I gave Beeb a few last-minute instructions, such as "call PopPop when you land, and call me when PopPop picks you up" kind of stuff.

And I think we parted okay. I gave her a hug and kiss and told her I loved her and to have a good time.

I'm happy to report that she has arrived safely, and we've talked, and it's cool.

And I miss her already.