Last night we were to spend the evening with our friends and their three year old daughter at their apartment. Normally I absolutely hate going anywhere because it's so hard to keep Alex from breaking things or drinking water out of the dog dishes or smearing poop on other people's couches. But last night we were going to be somewhere that was already mostly kid-proof, so I was uncharacteristically looking forward to getting out of our house for a change.
Alex and Regan get along wonderfully, mostly because sharing isn't an issue. She wants to play with the stuffed animals and Alex wants to play with matchbox cars. This arrangement allows the two of them to play quite happily together in the playroom for hours with minimal hair pulling, biting and crying.
As expected, the evening went very well, with the exception of the one 15 minute tantrum Alex pitched because he was not allowed to play with the daddy toys (collectible GI Joe's and Star Wars figures that John and Josh were fawning over in the living room). I blame this tantrum on John because really, what does he expect? Of course Alex wants to play with the toys the daddy's are playing with. When his choices are playing princess horsies with Regan and super cool army guys with the daddy's, I mean, come on. Once he calmed down, it was smooth sailing the rest of the night. He even fell asleep for two hours allowing us to finish up playing our game on the Wii uninterrupted by requests for juice.
And then we woke him up to go home.
Normally, when we go somewhere I pack a 50 pound bag of anything and everything you could possibly need for an evening out with Alex. A variety of different kinds of snacks ranging from Goldfish crackers to a can of green beans. two bottles, one filled with juice, one empty and a spare juice box. A minimum of two matchbox cars, three transformer "bots", two favorite stuffed animals, a dozen mega blocks, five books, and some random thing from the kitchen he's never seen like a whisk or an adjustable measuring cup. I also bring eight diapers and two packs of wipes, butt cream, baby Tylenol, orajel swabs and a small bottle of instant hand sanitizer. The most important thing I pack are one or all of his three favorites: "Bunny" (his blue stuffed Easter bunny from this year), "Bankie" (his rocket ship blankie he's had since birth) and "Diego bankie" (his new Go Diego Go blanket).
Last night, I brought one bottle of juice, four diapers, one pack of wipes and hand sanitizer all packed in my relatively small tote bag. I did this on purpose, reasoning that since we're going to a home occupied by a small child, I wouldn't need to load up for bear, moose and woolly mammoth. And mostly I was right, that is until he woke up at 2:00AM to go home only to find he did not have "BANKIE!". He didn't have "DIEGO BANKIE!". He didn't even have "BUNNY!"
He cried as though John and I had just shot Diegogo in the head right in front of him. The entire 40 minute drive home, our car shook with the wails of a child scorned. His sobs were punctuated by shrieks for "BANKIE! BBBBBANKIE!". Occasionally, he'd collapse back into his car seat with a whimper and fall asleep for a few seconds before sitting bolt upright howling about the injustice that has been done to him. I spent the drive turned around in my seat talking to him, occasionally trying to stroke his cheeks, hands and feet to comfort him, only to have him recoil in disgust and scream at me with fire in his eyes. About halfway home, I began telling him how many miles until we get to bankie. I told him bunny was waiting up for him in the living room and couldn't wait to see him. I tried to tell him I was sorry, that I'd messed up. Mommy made a mistake and it will never happen again, I promise.
When we finally pulled up to our house, Alex was covered in tears, sweat and snot and I was sick to my stomach with guilt for having caused my poor child so much pain. We went in to find bunny next to the door, having been tossed into the corner of the room earlier in the day. We then went immediately into Alex's room, found Diego bankie and I wrapped him up like a burrito and held him until his sniffling subsided and he fell asleep for the night.
Had I ever doubted the need for a comfort item, had I ever thought that my child could survive a simple drive home without his favorite blankies or bunny, those notions have been banished for good. Mark my words, I will never leave the house without my 50 pound "rescue pack" again.
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