I had an epiphany immediately following a children's birthday party this afternoon -
I am a complete psychomom.
Let's back up a few hours, to this morning. Josh has pretty much been MIA since Tuesday. On Wednesday nights he has class and gets home after Avery and I are asleep. On both Thursday and Friday, he took the day off of work to meet with his group for a financial competition. They won first place a few weeks ago, so they now will be representing UCI as they go up against other universities this week for round two. He was also gone all day today (and is still gone), and will be gone all day tomorrow. With his next class being on Monday night, I probably won't really see him until Tuesday. So it's been a little hectic trying to hold down the fort by myself, and we had an unusually busy day planned today.
Gammy joined us at dance class at 8:30 am, since I had to leave immediately after class to get my hair done in San Dimas. This was the last appointment I could get prior to my brother's wedding next weekend, so it was non-negotiable.
(I was told by the instructor that since Avery is now a veteran at this class and doing really well each week, she should move up to the bigger kids' class in March.
Wow, her first "graduation!")
After frantically securing the carseat in my mom's car and sanitizing Avery's hands after class, I hopped into my own car and took off for my hair appointment. During this time, my mom took Avery to the park, and then back to her house for lunch and a nap.
I got finished with my appointment about an hour later than I had estimated, so by the time I drove all the way back to Orange, switched the carseat again, and got us to the birthday party, we were almost two hours late. I felt awful for being so behind schedule because tardiness is very out of character for me, but I thought even if the party was winding down we could at least drop off the gifts and say hello.
When we pulled up, Avery started screeching because they had a bounce house in the front yard, and we all know how she loves to jump. I hadn't even set the gifts or my purse down, or said hello to anyone, and there I was hunched over on the grass trying to help Avery get her shoes off so she could join the fun.
As soon as she climbed through the flap and I lifted my head to look in on the action, my panic set in. The birthday party was a double party for a 5-year-old boy and his 2-year-old sister. The jumper was FILLED with older, bigger, rowdy boys, who were pushing, shoving, wrestling, and throwing basketballs into the hoop inside the jumper (whoever invented a basketball hoop inside a bounce house clearly did not think it through). We had literally been at the party for three minutes, and I was standing there SHOUTING at the top of my lungs at other peoples' kids. I must have been pretty loud, because all the kids in the jumper stopped dead in their tracks, and another mother came over next to me, scolded her boys, and said, "Sorry."
I made no apologies for my yelling, and in fact thought it was appalling that so many parents at the party had raised such ruthless and violent little boys. And then it got worse. A 3-year-old boy whose face was oozing with snot and smelled like he needed a serious diaper change came up to Avery and wanted to play with her and hold her hands. My heart and brain raced as my body went into a full-fledged panic attack. Oh my God. He's going to get her sick. He's clearly sick. Why did his parents bring him here? Great, now I'm going to get sick. And we're going to wind up back at the hospital. I wonder how quickly I can coax Avery out of here to sanitize her from head to toe...
At this point, I was still wearing my purse. I still had not said hello to the hostess of the party, or to my other friend who was also there. And I was actually trying to come up with a believable excuse so that I could swoop up Avery, bolt to the car and flee miles away from germ-infested Wrestle Mania.
I spent almost every minute of the party with my face glued to the side of the jumper, monitoring the boys and trying to protect my kid from 10 feet away. Despite getting kicked in the head once, knocked down a few times (and presumably coated with bacteria), she emerged unscathed.
(I only got a few pictures because I was too busy hyperventilating; which is fine, because seeing these pictures gives me anxiety all over again).
At some point that seemed like 9 hours later, Avery came out and was ready for cake. She has been to enough parties now to know that if it's someone's birthday, she will get to eat cake. I went over to the food table and picked up a white cupcake for her. I located a plate, but couldn't find any utensils. I assumed that some of the things on the table may have been put away already since we had arrived late. So I went inside the house to ask the hostess for a fork. She said, "A fork? Who needs a fork?" At that moment I scanned my memory and recalled all the items on the food table - Sandwiches, tortilla rolls, veggie sticks, fruit pieces, cupcakes....And then it dawned on me....
Finger foods...
I attempted to think quickly but answered sheepishly with the truth; "My crazy child, who won't eat anything messy with her hands...Just like her mother."
She laughed and appeased my neurosis with a plastic fork.
After double-sanitizing Avery's hands and neatly feeding her the cupcake, I got her bike out of the trunk so she could ride bikes with the other kids. And after one too many kids put their germy paws on it, my anxiety told me it was time to head home.
On the way home, I recalled the story my mom had told me briefly when I picked Avery up before the party. They had gone to the park together, and Avery had gotten a very tiny hole in her pants while playing on the playground. Once they were back home and settling down for naptime, Avery discovered the tear and became quite concerned and obssessed with it. Finally my mom removed the pants, got out the sewing kit and put two or three tiny stitches through the hole, reassuring Avery that she was "fixing it." As soon as the pants were returned to their original state of perfection, Avery was satisfied and fell fast asleep.
I then thought back to the party, and the past couple hours I had spent with my eyes locked on Avery, trying to keep her germ- and injury-free, while other parents laughed and socialized and ate and I judged them for neglecting their out-of-control monsters.
Are they the normal ones? Or the irresponsible ones? Am I the crazy mom that everyone is staring at and whispering about how high-strung she is? And who is right?
So it's decided: I'm a psychomom. And I'm inadvertently passing my OCD onto my child. And because of that, I will never have a parent give me a dirty look for bringing my kid somewhere with a runny nose when she should be home and not exposing others to an illness, or get a nasty glance because my kid looks unkempt and dirty. My child will never put her filthy hands in her mouth to consume messy finger foods after being inside a sweaty bounce house.
I will, however, have a (mostly) clean child who knows the importance of washing hands and being careful and courteous in play areas when smaller kids are present. A polite kid who wants to look neat and pretty and not have clothes full of holes or stains.
And I am damn proud of it.
