It Takes a Village (& a Starbucks Guy)

After a few months of living in our grandparents' home while selling our house, praying that the kids wouldn't break any "prettys," we finally moved into our new home 2 weeks ago!

This was a major feat we could not have achieved without the amazing help of our kids' grandparents, great-grandparents, great-aunties, uncles, aunties, friends, & Cherry Street neighbors.

It took me awhile, but over the last year I finally learned how to accept help. In fact, I have gotten so good at accepting & soliciting help over the past few months that I recently enlisted the help of a complete stranger:

The other day, as I pulled through the BEST INVENTION EVER - the Starbucks drive thru - I whispered to the Starbucks guy, "Hey, can I ask you a big favor?"

"Sure," he happily replies (I think they get Prozac with their paychecks).

"I'm going to roll down my back window & when I drive off, can you give me the thumbs up sign if my baby is asleep?"

"Sure!" He is so excited, & I start to feel bad that I didn't tip him for babysitting services, but seriously, I just bought a new house that I have to furnish.

So now I am asking strangers who work in drive-thru windows to assist in rearing my children.

Pretty sure I will not be asked to write a parenting book any time soon.

"Mommy, do you need some privacy?"

"Mommy, do you need some privacy?" is what I hear every time I am followed into the bathroom by Ainsley.

Normally she'll shut the door or run out of the room when I answer "yes," but the other day was a different story.

Enter Ainsley into the bathroom, banging a xylophone, as I am going to the bathroom.

"It's kind of loud in here, Mommy," she says, banging her instrument.

"Yes it is."

"Does it give you a headache?"

"Yes it does."

"Do you need some privacy, Mommy?" she asks.

"Yes, that would be nice, Ainsley."

"Well, you should go somewhere else then."

BANG BANG BANG she skips out of the bathroom.

(This post has NOT been made possible by Time Warner Cable who has seriously screwed up my internet, thus compromising this blog.)

My First Mommy 911 Call

Repeated requests have been made for the "car-locking incident" - also known as my most embarrassing, traumatizing mothering mishap to date.

It's an oldie, but a goodie:

The Scene:

A blazing hot, 102 degree August 2007 day, when 4 month-old Ainsley

& I are on our way to her first professional photo shoot.

While driving, Ainsley's pacifier falls out & she's screaming, so I pull over (safety first!), get out of the car (which I leave running because it is 1,000 degrees outside) & return the pacifier to my screamer.

All is well, until my car door slams shut (I stopped on a hill, of course).

I try to open the door & all the doors lock. (Thanks, Acura, for that great safety feature.)

Awesome. My 4-month old is locked in my running car. At least the air conditioning is on.

Do Not Freak Out, Emily, Do Not Freak Out:

So, I am a first-time mom who has locked my child in a car. What to make of this, what to make of this.....

I decide not to freak out because a hysterical first-time mom who locks her kid in the car is way worse than a calm one. And, Ainsley doesn't know she's locked in the car, she thinks she's on a car ride & has her pacifier & is happy.

Of course my cell phone is locked in the car, so I walk up to a friendly-looking house (what? if you were a serial killer, wouldn't you try to make your house "friendly looking?") to use their phone & call my husband, Brad, who will be thrilled to get me out of this mess.

Luckily these are the nicest people, they give me bottled water, wait outside with me in 1,000 heat & tell me bad parenting stories of their own.

As my luck would have it, Brad is not in his office, he's at lunch. I have him paged many times but nobody can find him.

His secretary doesn't know his new cell phone number & neither do I. (The fact that I don't know his cell number is, of course, disgusting to Brad, but the fact that I JUST memorized it 3 years later disturbs him even more!)

After 20 minutes of neighbors coming out of their houses to talk to the first-time mom who is just a little too calm & stare at my baby-locked-in-a-well-air-conditioned car, I decide I'm not getting a hold of Brad.

So I do it. I call 911.

The 911 Call:

"Hi, I locked my baby in the car, but it's running & the air conditioner is on & she's fine, but I need the fire department to come & open my car. Can they do that?" I say in a very calm voice, chipper voice, because I keep telling myself that "I am calm, I can handle this situation, it is not a big deal & I will survive" (even if my pride doesn't).

"You WHAT?" responds this lovely 911 operator.

So I explain it again, she tells me the fire department is on its ways & I thank her, like I just ordered a pizza or something.

The Sirens:

I go back to chatting it up with the nosy-baby-starers who are now tapping on Ainsley's window & waving to her. Awesome.

Why don't you just start banging on the window yelling, "You're locked in the car, baby! You're locked in the car!!!"

And then we hear the sirens come. Not only does the fire department send a huge ladder engine, but also the Chief of the Fire Department's SUV & a police squad car.

After I am grilled by a police officer & firefighter & convince them that indeed, it was an accident that my baby is locked in a running car & they don't need to contact the Department of Family Services, I start to relax.

I am not going to jail & they are willing to wait a few minutes to see if Brad got my voicemails & shows up before they break open my car.

Another car shows up. I'm hoping it's Brad with the keys, but it's not.

It's the local news stations.

Live, Late-Breaking at 5 p.m.:

Yep, apparently locking your baby in an air-conditioned car is hard-hitting news.

The news stations listen to police scanners waiting for vulnerable first-time mothers to make one misstep and BOOM-they show up with their cameras to capture it all.

I try to convince the reporter & camera man, who has the camera an inch from my face, into leaving.

"Seriously, I know this is your job, but this is not a big deal, she is fine, she doesn't even know she's locked in the car, the fire department is going to open the door if my husband doesn't show up in 5 minutes. Please don't film this. I'm going back to work tomorrow & I don't want my family & everyone I work with to see this," I plead.

"I'm sorry, but we have to get the story."

And Then, I Cry - A Lot:

All of a sudden my knight in shining armor shows up - Brad with the extra set of keys.

And then tears flow. For a long time. The stress & embarrassment of it all turns me, typically a non-crier, into a blubbering mess.

The news camera is 12 inches from my face as I rip Ainsley out of the car seat (now crying because her mom opened her car door and is bawling) & take off down the street.

Think back to Baby Jessica being pulled out of the well - this is the ridiculous dramatic turn into which I have just taken this situation.

I am not just crying, I am hysterical. The news crew got a great shot of me reunited with my baby, hysterical & clutching her as I ran down the street.

And yes, my car is still running. My poor husband has to tell the officers, fire fighters, neighbors thank you & pick me up & then listen to me cry for about an hour - at the photographer's studio.

Yep - I was still getting those pictures taken.

There is a little more to this story, but this post is too long - in the end, it did not end up on the news (after I called all of our family - crying, the crying continued all day - to tell them to be prepared for their negligent daughter/granddaughter/niece to be on the news) & my 4 month old took the best pictures ever.

It took about a year for us to joke about it - but now this is a hilarious story that gets whipped out at cocktail parties & play dates. Who knew motherhood would be so entertaining?

The pictures on this post are of Ainsley post-car-locking incident at 4 months - clearly not that traumatized!

In Which I Fake Cry

I am not above bribery & manipulation to accomplish mothering goals like eating vegetables & teaching good manners, but recently I reached a new low.

The background:

Max puts everything in his mouth, not to mention, he chokes on his drool, finds minuscule pieces of food, paper & play-doh under Ainsley's chair to eat & has already experienced my version of the Heimlich maneuver to dislodge a mystery object.

Ainsley has a hard time remembering to remove her crayons (apparently very tempting & tasty to Max), stickers & other chokable items from her brother's grasp.

The scene:

In the kitchen, Max looks up at me with a huge blue grin on his face, gripping a blue crayon. Me, racing to the floor, shoving my finger is his mouth trying to find the crayon piece he's about to choke on.

"AINSLEY, you HAVE to remember to pick up your crayons!"

"What mom?" she responds, totally ignoring me & not noticing that her brother just ate

her crayon.

So I try another tactic.

I pretend to cry. Oh yes, I do.

"Your crayons!" I wail. "You have to pick them up or Max could eat them & get really sick & it would be so sad!" Sob, sob, sob.

She turns & I finally have her attention. "I'm so sorry, Mommy! I will pick them up!"

And then she starts to cry. Not just cry, but sob.

She is trying to out-sob me.

Good, Lord.

Most moms might feel guilty that they made their child cry, but Ainsley produces Academy Award-winning tears on a daily basis, so I really feel no guilt. (An inherited trait from her Auntie Julie).

So there we were, the three of us on the floor, Max smiling with his blue mouth, Ainsley producing Steel Magnolias-worthy tears, & me, comforting her & picking up tiny crumbs from this morning's breakfast so my son won't choke.

These are the moments where I seriously feel like we could have a reality show because it all just seems so ridiculously ridiculous. (But I wouldn't change it for a second!)