Mom of the Year 2013 – Not Looking Good

Alternately titled:

I’m here to make you all feel better about yourselves

Photo by Avodah

We’ve had a blustery couple of weeks here in the Sunshine State. I love Florida in March simply because it’s unpredictable…but unpredictable in a good way. It can be warm and sunny one day and cold and windy the next, but by warm I mean 85 degrees and by cold I mean 55 degrees.

In case you were wondering, that is the perfect range of temperatures. It means that many days we have stretches of time where we hang out in the upper ’60’s/lower ’70’s, which I’m fairly certain is the temperature heaven will be set at. An eternity of 75 degrees.

Yes, please.

But this story isn’t about the weather. Oh, no. It is about my stellar mothering skillz. I spelled skillz with a ‘z’ so you’d really get a feel for just how much I’m rockin’ this Mommy gig.

Like any good mother, when the temperature dips below 60 degrees, I insist on pants and at minimum a light sweatshirt. This is becoming increasingly more difficult to keep up with because my kids don’t own many pants anymore since we only need them about 15 days a year.

But this post isn’t about pants, either. Well…not entirely.

It was a cold morning a few weeks ago, so I grabbed a pair of sweat pants out of Landon’s drawer. He is my child who hates wearing pants…and shoes…and underwear. He likes freedom. You can’t fault a kid for it, right?

We put on his pants and a t-shirt, then did all our morning activities. I had to actually get myself ready that morning as I was meeting a friend after I dropped Landon off, so it was a little more hectic than usual. We finally hopped in the car and drove quickly to his preschool.

Just as I pulled into the preschool parking lot, Landon pipes up from the back. “Oh no! Mommy! My pants!” I pull in and park and turn around to see what the problem is and almost choke on my own spit.

The crotch of his pants was caked in dried Nutella. It was half an inch thick and ran from the middle of his crotch down to the middle of his thighs. Dark, dry chocolate.

Now, after I got over lamenting what was an apparent waste of perfectly good Nutella, I asked Landon how on Earth that happened…and when.

“‘Member the other day when you gave me Nutella on bread and I accidentally sat on it?” He asked. No son. I DO NOT REMEMBER THIS!

“Well why were your pants in your drawer, then?” I asked.

“You told me to clean my room,” came his answer. “I just was putting everything where it goes like you said.”

People, this kid. This child of mine. Between his round face, his freckles and his love of snuggles, I’m pretty sure he will get anything out of me that he wants. Ever. I can’t get mad at him. Plus, he had a point. I did tell him to put everything where it goes.

Clearly I need to be more specific about where dirty clothes go.

I jumped out of the car and searched frantically to see if I by chance had a spare pair of pants or shorts anywhere inside. I had a half-empty bag of Cheezits, four single socks (of course), three pairs of shoes, a tennis ball and what I think may have been a ham sandwich at some point, but no pants.

School was about to start and I had to meet my friend, so I walked Landon in and told him to sit on his knees, not sit cross legged. As long as he kept his legs together no one would see. But as I left, I knew I couldn’t leave him in those pants all day. All it would take was one forgotten Criss Cross Apple Sauce and I had visions of him forever labeled as Poopy Pants Landon.

Because Nutella looks delicious on bread, but dried and crusted on a pair of grey sweatpants is a whole different story.

Thankfully, mercifully, Lee was in town that day and on his way home from having his oil changed. I called him and tried to be all cool and casual. “Hey Babe. So, can you swing by Target and buy Landon a pair of pants…and then drop them off at school?”

Lee: “Do I want to ask?”

Me: “Probably not.”

And THAT, my friends, is the day I lost my place in line as Mom of the Year. I think I solidified my low ranking this week when I got a text at 6:55 from Sloan’s baseball coach asking if we were going to make it to the 7:00 game.

See? Skillz.