An Embee Family Prehistoric Nightmare

I’ve often thought I’d never survive in “olden times.” Like ancient Rome, or pioneer days, or the ’50s. To the outside world I probably seem perfectly evolved for historical times: I have decent vision, I rarely get sick, I’m really loud (for orating in Ancient Rome) and I’m able to store EVERY SINGLE calorie I eat as fat in case of leaner times.

However, I really need modern luxuries. Like Advil. And hair highlights. If not for living in our current time, I wouldn’t have had an epidural, and I’m quite certain I would not have survived childbirth without that. Of course, I also wouldn’t have become detached from monitors, leading to a six-alarm emergency as nurses thought the entire population of my labor room was in cardiac arrest. But that’s another story. This week, the Embee family got a test of our abilities to survive in ancient times:

The Internet died.

If you think that’s a ludicrous comparison to, say, not having indoor plumbing . . . well actually you’ve got me there, but short of enduring flies circling my head while I squat in an outhouse, losing the Internet is about the most direct launch into the Dark Age one can experience.

When that box with the blinky lights first froze (I learned later it was a cable modem, and it had died, RIP), I did what anyone would–I hit the keyboard harder. And moved my head forward like a pigeon each time I clicked the mouse. Then we yelled at the laptop and the blinky lights for a while. Then we figured it was a temporary outage and all would be well in a matter of minutes. It was uncomfortable knowing that we couldn’t look anything up. That the world was Happening and we didn’t know about it. But it was temporary.

The next morning I had to find out the weather from the TV. Then I had Mr. Embee guide me to a work location (where I would not have a computer–insult, meet injury) via cell phone because Al Gore had NOT come to my house in the dark of night to fix my web tubes. I had no idea who had posted on Facebook that they had been up until 3 a.m. making cupcakes for their kid’s school party. HOW was the world still spinning?

Clearly we needed to call the Provider of the Information Tubes. But guess what? We couldn’t look up the number! (We don’t have these, how do you say, ‘smart’ phones. My cell is, as a friend recently informed me, from 1912.) On the way home from school, Sally asked how balls are made. How am I supposed to know? Why does she need to be so smart all the time? I started to say “we’ll look it up” and then remembered the universe had imploded the day before. What was I going to do, break out the Encyclopedia Britannica? So I was like “Sorry kid, you’re gonna have to just be a dummy for a while until Mommy and Daddy get the computer fixed.”

By dinner time, we were devolving. We managed to grunt back and forth until we found the yellow pages (gathering dust in a closet in case we needed an extra booster seat) to call someone about our little issue. I couldn’t cook because the recipes I needed were online. Sally started chewing at the leather ottoman while I wove loin cloths from the upholstery. We began collecting water from the garden hose and screeching in fear at our reflections. Mr. Embee came home from work and wondered what in heaven’s name was going on. Then he learned (from the cave drawings) that the Internet was still out, and he went to kill a neighborhood cat for us to feed on.

We’d become such cavepeople that by the time we finally talked to a customer service rep on the phone, we could barely communicate. “Lady say put in account number. You know fancy numbers?” “Why lights still no blink?! Gods very angry!”

Forty-eight hours after the apocalypse, just before we lit an offering bonfire in the living room, the web came back. Our sins were forgiven! And it’s lucky for Sally because the sacrifice stake was prepared, and she’s the only virgin in the house.

Airing Our Laundry

Getting the laundry done is like achieving world peace — it’s never going to happen. Sorry, was that a total bummer? Well, somebody had to tell you. I “only” have one child. There are “only” three people in our home. We are buried in laundry. If I had another child, I’d lose it in a pile of towels. I don’t understand how larger families deal.

Well, yes I do. It’s called delegating. I am one of four children. When we were tall enough to reach the top of the washing machine, our mom taught us how to use it. We were then in charge of our own laundry. I remember it seeming like a cool, grown-up thing to do. Have I mentioned my mother is brilliant? But even with everyone in charge of their own Tide, so to speak, our laundry room was overflowing with 100-percent cotton, the machines always running and underwear, etc. in short supply.

Not even half the battle: This dramatic laundry photo shows only a third of Sunday's washing.

In my miniature-by-comparison family, the two people who don’t routinely do laundry are constantly asking where things are–because apparently the entirety of clothing is my jurisdiction. You know, seeing as how I majored in stain removal and all*. Where are my jeans. Unwrinkled shirts. Pink dress. Blue ruffle socks. Not those ones, the other ones. You want to know where they are? IN THE LAUNDRY. It’s all. Always. In. The laundry. For one miraculous day it makes it out and onto your body, then you spill ketchup on it and it’s back IN THE LAUNDRY. And I get to wash it. Again.

When Sally was a newborn I washed everything the instant it was soiled in any way. It makes me laugh to think about that. Eventually I moved to a 2:4 ratio system–item must be soiled with at least two of four offensive substances before washing will occur: urine, drool, barf or food. Poop was an automatic washing. Well, unless it was only a little bit. We’re past those days now, but the DIRT. Sally comes home covered in a layer of fine dust, with trails of what appears to be mud and juice running down her pants, and strawberry or mac&cheese stains on her shirt. She’s gross. And she’s a pretty tidy kid.

I’m not going to talk about how Mr. Embee’s socks breed like rabbits all over the house because I really don’t want to embarrass him.

Sometimes things go missing. Socks and pajamas, mostly, but also formal wear. Sometimes before company comes over I throw all the laundry into a closet, then forget about it for weeks, then can’t remember which piles were clean or dirty, so I wash it all again only to find out that Sally outgrew the entire load while it languished in darkness.

Today I pulled a black cardigan sweater out of the dirty laundry and wore it again. It smelled vaguely of spaghetti sauce, but there honestly wasn’t a better option. I own other black sweaters (a staple) but I can’t find them. Presumably they are in the laundry or suffocating in a closet.

Recently I went to wash one of Sally’s dresses. It was the first washing, so I read the label for good measure: dry clean only. Are you kidding me?! I go to the cleaners precisely once per year, to have Mr. Embee’s tux cleaned (because we do actually have an annual black tie affair, but that’s another story). I am NOT paying $8 to dry clean a hand-towel-sized dress whose owner wipes boogers on her clothes when she thinks nobody is looking. Not doing it. I wished the dress good luck and threw it in with the rest of the lights.

You’ll have to excuse me now. There’s laundry to be done.

* = When we were voting, I said I was not opposed to laundry. Mr. Embee got garbage duty. I’m far happier folding T-shirts than breaking down cardboard boxes and dealing with compost bins. Still, I like to complain. If nobody complained there wouldn’t be any blogs. See? I’m helping!

Quickie: Car Talk

**During the month of July, Mom-Colored Glasses is taking a bit of a break. There will still be posts, but not twice per week and I’ll do some shorter things, which I’m going to call Quickies despite the obvious innuendo there. I’ll also post a few “short stuff” items and post them on Facebook. It’s “summer lite.” Now, back to your regularly scheduled program. . . .**

kaisersosa67/iStockphoto

We made two stops on our two-hour drive home from Fourth of July festivities on Monday: one for a milkshake to keep super-tired Sally awake during the late-afternoon car ride, and one potty break. So when she announced –five miles from home –”I’ve gotta POOP!” we told her to keep her pants on, we’d be home in five minutes. This child could enter bladder- and bowel-control competitions, so trust me, this is not a big deal. She could wait. But she shot back, “Poop wants to come out NOW.”

“Well, tell poop it has to stay in a few more minutes.”

. . . Sometimes I forget how literal kids are.

From the back, Mr. Embee and I hear a high, constricted voice: “Sally, I need to come out now.”

Sally’s voice: “You can’t, Poop. You have to wait. I’m sorry.”

“But I really need to come out!”

And on, and on.

Mr. Embee looks at me from the driver’s seat. “Is she having a conversation with her poo?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

“What are we doing for dinner?” When you live in Sally’s world, you just accept some things, like full, voice-altered conversations with fecal matter.

Pooh Pooh on You

“Poop.” That’s what Sally told her grandmother when I asked her to repeat, via speaker phone, what she had played with today. She did not, for the record, play with feces. This is now her standard answer when she’s, well, pooped: tired of answering questions, not in the mood to be mommy’s dress-up doll, or sick of performing like a trained seal for our entertainment.

On one hand, I’m annoyed and somewhat embarrassed that the angelic child who was telling me a hilarious story is suddenly a potty-mouthed brat. On the other hand, I don’t like repeating my stories, either. And I clearly remember as a child really not wanting to play Christmas carols on my flute for the entire family’s enjoyment—if only I’d had the presence of mind to yell out “doo-doo” maybe I would have been left alone.

Who among us hasn’t, on occasion, been fed up and wanted to revert to first-grad swear words? Most of us skip these as adults and go straight for the R-rated four-letter variety but I think the simpler ones are undervalued. Your boss wants you to give a presentation—today—hey boss, you’re a booger head. Poop on you, mortgage payment. Annoying person talking behind me during the movie, fart poop shut up pee!

It’s actually so juvenile that more people would take notice than they would if you were using harsher terminology. Plus, it makes you feel kind of good, doesn’t it? So I get it. Sally is frustrated, tired and sick of doing whatever it is I’m asking her to be cute and do. She blurts out the worst obscenity she can think of, and, indeed, it stops me in my tracks and makes me raise one eyebrow so high it’s likely to become part of my hairline. Mission accomplished, Sally style.

It’s still annoying, though. Poop.