No, it's not the Easter Bunny

I am so tired I want to shoot myself in the face, but instead, I decided to write. I am almost done painting the living room for the second time in ten months. After no longer being able to live with the boring taupe I slapped on the walls to cover up the grimy, off-white from the previous owners, I finally decided on a color scheme for our as-of-yet furniture-less front room, and painted it Labrador Blue. It's actually the color of the Dunphy's entryway on Modern Family (shut up*). It's not the painting that 's killing me, since you all know I take care of all the wall treatments in the this family. It was pretty funny today when the neighbor's five year-old son saw me in my painting togs, asked me what I was doing and upon being told said, "I thought guys do the painting." Not in the this family, boy-o. Anyway, what is killing me is this first time I've had to return to my paint-during-nap phase of home improvement, now with two kids waiting to be picked up from elementary school, afternoon playdates, and homework to be done. The last time I did this, I was able to park #1 and #2 in front of Sesame Street and put my feet up for the rest of the afternoon while admiring my handiwork.

As the subtitle of my blog states, "No on told me it would be like this", and trying to squeeze what most people spend a whole Saturday doing into one three hour nap is another thing left out of the stay-at-home mom job description. Lest you think this will all be about painting, I have another story that exemplifies this "seriously?" aspect of parenting.

A few weeks back, the kids were all out in the backyard playing peacefully, alone, as Little Man's physical dexterity has increased to the point where an errant twig will not send him toppling, head-first, to the ground, requiring my constant supervision. I was in the kitchen prepping dinner, uninhibited by requests for Goldfish and The Backyardigans, which alone made the $1500 we shelled out for a playset, instead of living room furniture, seem like a really wise decision. I was just about to relax and begin to enjoy the silence when #1 comes running into the kitchen. Expecting a report of her brother's bleeding head wound as punishment for my tempting the parenting fates by letting my guard down, I was relieved, then immediately again alarmed, when she told me with a squeamish look on her face, "I think Reilly found an animal in the bushes and he's shaking it with his mouth and it's squealing." Oh. Shit.

I run outside already screaming the dog's name, yelling, "DROP IT!!!" He darts out of the garden guiltily, and there I see his prey in the underbrush. A baby rabbit. A baby, friggin', rabbit. Couldn't it have been a squirrel (since we all know our family feud with that species), or a chipmunk, some animal that doesn't appear with such adorable, fuzzy-eared, frequency in a kid's world, as a rabbit? Now I have to keep everyone calm and explain how Reilly isn't really a savage, killing machine and that he was only doing what he is genetically pre-disposed to do when he encounters a small animal, which is grab it by the neck, shake it to ensure it's dead and bring it back to his master ...me.**

I now see how the rest of my afternoon is going to go and wonder where I put those empty shoe boxes and where the beach shovels are. Until #1 and I take a closer look. "Look, Mom! It's still alive! We can save it!" Indeed, we can see little Thumper's heart beating as he lies pitifully on his side drenched in dog saliva. Thanks a million, Reilly. You couldn't do me a favor and finish the job? As I kneel there, wondering how I explain paralysis to a seven and five year-old, the rabbit starts frantically bicycling its legs. Maybe he's OK! So with Little Man chanting, "Rabbitrabbitrabbitrabbit", I do the only thing I can and suppressing my gag reflex, turn the little guy over and hope he runs away.

No dice. Thumper plops back over on his side, still working his legs like a Rockette, and now I know his back is broken, but not broken enough to kill him. Sweet. Now I begin the explanation I was dreading concerning spinal cords and what happens when one is severed, and of course, #2 requires visual aides, requiring my firing up the laptop in the backyard while we all stare at Thumper and wonder what to do. I immediately put the kibosh on any plan to take this rabbit to the vet as I am not about to defer any further the purchase of living room furniture to save an obviously doomed forest creature. In the end, I lined a shoe box (which thankfully was in the garage) with a towel and placed Thumper gently in it, then put it on a shelf in the garage so no animals would get to him while I awaited H's return from work. The text I sent him - "There is a paralyzed, baby rabbit dying in a box in the garage thanks to your dog." He was then informed he was going to have to drown the rabbit when he got home, since I really didn't want the poor little guy to suffer, and all I needed was a Bunny Death Watch where I would wind up feeding Thumper with a baby bottle as he lingered for weeks. Thankfully, God intervened and Thumper passed away sometime between the chicken nuggets and bath time. Followed by a long discussion of heaven and who gets admitted.

This, my friends, is a perfect example of parenting on the fly. I didn't lose my shit on the dog, despite wanting to desperately, and I managed to keep the kids from losing their minds. We all think parenting is going to be so straight forward, full of days at the park and books at bedtime with easy lessons about right and wrong sprinkled on top. We don't stop to think about what happens in between - dead rabbits in the backyard, near drownings, trips to the urgent care and all the disgusting crap you'll wind up touching. But these are the stories that make life interesting, that make you not want to rip out your hair with boredom. This kind of stuff keeps you on your toes. Doesn't make handling a rabbit dripping with dog spit any less gross though.

*Now I have something else in common with Claire Dunphy, other than being a high-strung, controlling, mother of three who is married to a man who acts, occasionally, like a functional retard.
**H will dispute this claim, but really, who is the dog afraid of when he's gotten into the garbage?