Dr. Jekyl and Mr. C

Mr. C and I spent the weekend at my parents’ house, a trip I’d really been looking forward to. I don’t know what it was about Mr. C this time around, but he seemed to decide that being in a non-childproofed home with his grandparents, their new puppy, two skittish felines, and my own 98-year-old grandmother was the perfect time to turn into a little shit.

My sweet, reasonable boy was nowhere in sight for four days, instead replaced by a holy terror who obsessively turned light switches on and off, repeatedly opened and slammed doors, fanatically chased animals towards the breakables in the china hutch, and apparently couldn’t grasp the concept that dog toys are only to be thrown down the hallway (not into the washing machine or onto the aforementioned china hutch).

I’m not saying I was completely shocked that Mr. C did any of these things: au contraire, he’s done each of these activities before. Repeatedly. No, what shocked me is that he spent four days happily completing these tasks over and over, despite being gently reminded, strictly warned, ominously threatened, loudly yelled at, and roughly sent to time out. Repeatedly.

And I was, until this point, so proud of my parenting skills. I mean, yes, my toddler often misbehaves. And sometimes I’ll allow him to be a little wild for awhile, since I know that’ll exhaust the misbehavin’ out of him and he’ll be better later. And, yes, my boy is all boy all the time; the only time he’s not running or touching something is when he’s asleep. But if he’s getting into something he shouldn’t be, I’m usually able to redirect him fairly easily. His truly evil spells generally don’t last more than half a day.

I used to attribute his reasonableness to my awesome mothering skills. This weekend, I suspect, was engineered by a higher power to knock my self-esteem down a notch; any of my child’s good qualities come from him, and not because of anything I’ve done.

Bummer. Now what do I have to rub in the other mothers’ noses when we meet for playgroup?

Now, keep in mind that I was a terrible child. A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad little girl. My terrible twos lasted until I was twelve. So I know that turnabout is fair play. And I’m sure my mother would absolutely have been crowing over my woes . . . were they not occurring in her own home. The poor woman just can’t get a break.

Come to think of it, this weekend my mother had to put up with four beings who, in one way or the other, had the intellectual or emotional or social development of a three-year-old. Firstly, there was the three-year-old. ’Nuff said. Then there was her young puppy, who spent the weekend gleefully stealing socks and eating his own poop. (But who actually listened to her when she told him to drop his ball and who only had to be sent to time out once. So: Dogs-1; Kids-0.)

Besides those two youngsters, my mother had to care for her own mother who – at 98 – is slowing down just a wee bit. While still quite capable, my delightful grandmother is to the point where she needs some gentle reminders, and she does best when conversations cover the same few topics: what the weather is currently doing, what Grandma is currently eating, what’s in what Grandma’s currently eating, and how soon until she can take her nap. Which means that a conversation with Grandma right now isn’t too far off from a conversation with Mr. C, except there’s less yelling and fewer trips to time out.

To top it all off, my mother also had to deal with a fourth three-year-old this weekend, as I inexplicably revert to a helpless lump when I visit: seemingly unable to move from the couch and suddenly incapable of fixing my own sandwiches. I think I only had to go to time out twice, though, and it was Mr. C who put me there. (And I was more than happy to go sit on the little stool in the hallway at that point, as it gave me a break from my child.)

Oh, I tried to rally. I wanted to be a good houseguest. I actually did make a full dinner one night (after first calling home to Bee to ask how to do it) and it was actually nearly edible. And the next night I recreated the potato scones I’d made for Bee’s birthday dinner (note to self: potato scones hold together much better when you use the ¾ cube of butter the recipe calls for, instead of the ¾ cup with which you initially made them). And I tried to contain my mess to just half of the house, and I occasionally even set the table.

However, I suspect that none of the good I did was enough to make up for my little hellion. My child, by the way, refused to even sit still long enough to watch a movie for more than 20 minutes, which is unheard of! He was only quiet during sleep times, and he was actually very good about just staying in his room until given permission to come out. Which means Mom and I took advantage of this, forcing him to lie down for three hours in the middle of the day and to stay in bed until nine the next morning, furiously shushing anyone or anything that might break the silence and our resultant Shangri-la.

All in all, the weekend was not nearly as relaxing as I had hoped it would be. As you are reading this, Mr. C and I are most likely on our way back home. I hope our drive back is as easy as it was over, when Mr. C surprisingly needed only 2 books, 1 toy, a map, a couple of cds and a milkshake to entertain him for 6 hours. (Why couldn’t the rest of the weekend be like that?)

I suspect that, as we are driving, my parents’ cats have come out of hiding and are lounging in the middle of the living room, bellies exposed and muscles relaxed. The puppy, exhausted from showing my child how to behave properly, is no longer cowering in my mother’s lap. Grandma is having a nice, uninterrupted nap. Dad is watching CNN without the light being turned on and off and on and off. And Mom may or may not be drunk.

Note to self: next time, bring industrial-sized pina colada mix as a hostess gift. Maybe you’ll get invited back again.

Houseguest-Made Nearly-Edible Meatloaf

Ground beef

a few too many bread crumbs (causing meatloaf to be a little sludgy)

1 egg

some ketchup

some mayo

some barbecue sauce (causing meatloaf to be a little bacon-y)

some thyme (the jar of which looks suspiciously like the same one used when you were a teen)

some of the spice mix Bee gave your hosts last Thanksgiving (but no one’s exactly sure what’s in it)

Mix all together. Pat into a loaf pan. Bake at 350 until you remember to check on it, having until then been busy over-cooking the string beans and under-cooking lumpy mashed potatoes.

Serve meal to your hosts, basking in their forced compliments and reminding yourself that at least this meal is a better gift than that piece o’ crap melted plastic reindeer wall hanging you thought would be a fantastic Christmas present for Mom when you were ten.