Val (that's my kid) and I were getting ready one morning. She and I in the morning are something like those people in the movies who suddenly find themselves on the cusp of an apocalyptic state of emergency. We both lazily ignore our alarms in favor of our '5 more minutes' mistake until the last possible second we can sleep before I lose my job and a truancy officer knows us by name. When we finally pull ourselves from our beds, primal panic takes over our bodies and we become, in a sense, lunatics. We race past each other in the hall, get your shoes! where's my backpack?! did you brush your hair or teeth or either? get in the car Val! get in the car Val! get in the car for cryin' out loud Val! Classy.
This particular morning was no exception. I was mid where-the-hell-are-my-keys when her small voice broke all four of my current trains of thought.
"Can I have this pie?"
I looked up to find her, not dressed (of course), hair a mess (of course), holding up a piece of pumpkin pie on a tea saucer (of cou - wait, what?).
"Is that...pie?" We both looked at it, me in shear wonder that pumpkin pie would materialize in my child's hand, her with shear delight that there was pumpkin pie to be had.
"Yeah, I think it's pumpkin. Can I have it?"
"I, I mean, I guess. Where did you get it?"
"The bathroom."
Now we stared at each other, me in utter confusion that she would find pie in our bathroom, she in utter confusion that I wasn't pouring a glass of milk for her to enjoy with her Bathroom Pie. I don't know, really, what was going through my head. Why was pie in the damn bathroom? Where did it come from? Who put it there and why didn't they eat it? Why the hell did I tell her she could eat it before these questions were answered?
To her dismay I took the pie from her to examine it. It was relatively fresh, no sign of the weird pie dew that forms on the top when left out, it was room temperature, it smelled delicious.
"Can I eat it now?"
What was I supposed to do? I saw the MythBusters episode, I know what happens when you flush with the lid up. How could I let my precious 8 year old daughter consume Bathroom Pie that was possibly bedazzled with microscopic shit bits?
"Sorry, kid."
She looked down at her shoes, I knew she was disappointed. I tried to console her. "Tell ya what, kid, go brush your hair, and if you happen to find, like, a chicken leg or something in there, it's all yours."
She brightened up a bit. "You promise?"
Sigh.
"Cross my heart."
That evening I had all but forgotten about the shit bits. Jonas came in, happy as always, so I started my evening ritual of telling him all the crap about work that he jovially ignores. I was following him through the house recounting the day's happenings until he stepped into the bathroom. He pulled back the shower curtain, looked around the tub, beside the toilet, behind the door.
"What are you lookin' for, babe?"
He then turns to me, in all seriousness, and says,
"You seen my pie?"
I felt my stomach turn. My upper lip started to curl and my eyebrows shot up to my hairline like those 7th grade girls who think it makes them look tough but really they look like they just smelled a dirty diaper. The Bathroom Pie was his pie? My sexy, muscular, college-educated, Greek god-like man eats Bathroom Pie? UGH! The man who I whole-heartily believe I was designed specifically to complete eats Bathroom Pie? In the midst of my major life alteration he brushes passed me in the hall and heads toward the front of the house. I heard his voice coming from the living room.
"Val, you seen my pie?"
"Yep, but Mama wouldn't let me eat it."
"Then where is it?"
My child, my sweet little baby, puts on some hateful, accusatory tone I had never heard come from her tiny pea head and tells him, "I don't know, she probably ate it just so we couldn't."
What?!?! I took off down the hallway, through the kitchen, into the laundry room. I scooped up the trash can and took into the living room. Holding it up at both of them I yelled "Look! Bathroom Pie! Right there! Of course I didn't eat it, I'm not a whackadoo that eats Bathroom Pie for cryin' out loud! It's disGUSting!" I turned my glare on Jonas, "and the thought of you eating ANYTHING in the bathroom makes my stomach turn! Who does that?! Who takes food from the kitchen, into the bathroom, where the nastiest possible things happen, and consumes it like you're at Ruth's Chris and its completely normal?! Who does that?!" Back to Val, "and YOU, little girl, had better not EVER go behind MY back saying that I did ANYthing that I didn't, you hear me? I don't care if you ARE just talking to Jonas that's SHADY and I'm not having it!" I carried the can back to the laundry room, cussing under my breath. Tell me I ate the damn pie, ya'll was trying to eat the damn pie I'm trying to save ya'll from salmonella shit bits. Ingrates.
It wasn't until much later that evening that I addressed the Bathroom Pie again to Jonas. I explained that it was the NASTIEST thing I could imagine; eating in the bathroom. And the thought that either of our kids could have easily consumed it and become violently ill really pissed me off. He explained that he likes to eat while in the bath. He sits in the tub and soaks his knee and eats. Ugh. I tried to empathize, but couldn't get passed the reactive disgust. "I don't want to live in a house with food in the bathroom. I don't want my daughter to see that I think its wrong but that you think its ok and then she's left confused and forced to make a decision that could leave her feeling like she's having to choose between us."
And that's it. That's my problem. My anger didn't show it's face until I felt like the kid was pitted against me. And she said what she said because she felt like I was pitted against her and Jonas. "She probably ate it just so we couldn't." I was terrified that this was a sign of what was to come. Our kids having to choose sides because Jonas and I were of opposing opinions or actions. It made me sad. It made me angry.
Jonas and I talked about this at length. For days, really. We would get heated and hurtful and back away to cool down. We (sadly) threw some your-kid-my-kid grenades. He took a few I'm-a-better-parent-than-you bullets. I suffered a few this-is-why-your-relationships-implode machine gun fire. But we didn't stop talking about it until we both agreed that our best strategy as co-creators of our blended family is to show a united front. If that means telling either kid "let me talk to your mom/dad first" then that's what we do. If that means going into another room to throw emotional grenades until a common ground is identified, then so be it. No good-cop-bad-cop, no mom-said-no-so-I'll-just-ask-Jonas. And, for the love of sanitation, no more Bathroom Pie.
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