The parent trap

When my boyfriend and I agreed to watch a couple of my cousins for a night at my aunt and uncle's cabin in the woods, we had visions of finding minnows in the creek, taking adventure walks, and telling tall bedtime tales. What we did not anticipate, dear readers, was rinsing messy bums in cold creek waters, inconsolable pre-bedtime crying, and midnight barf-o-ramas.

We left Santa Barbara early Saturday morning, and headed south for a night in the Ortega mountains, where my aunt (who, incidentally, is only six years my senior and has always been more of a sister to me—a sister who once put me in the dryer and turned it ON, and made me pick up a dead kitten. Suffice to say, we're close) lives in a 1920s-era cabin with her husband and six children. The evening started without a hitch—I mean, we only had two boys (ages 5 and 3) of SIX children. A cinch, right? We played in the creek, attempted a rope swing, then decided to explore. Sasbeau was carrying 3-year-old Liam on his shoulders when he scrunched his nose and said, "Um, I think we have a situation here." We did, indeed, have a situation. For lack of a better term, a BLOWOUT had occurred (if you know what I mean), which needed immediate attention. We were a ways from the house and I hadn't thought to bring extra diapers on our walk, so there we were, two little babes in the woods with, well, two little babes in the woods. In my most enthusiastic voice, I said, "I think it's time for a swim in the creek, Liam." He looked at me with his big, brown trust-in-me-eyes, and said, "I-don't-want-go-creek-I-don't-want-go-creek-I-don't-want-go-creek-I-don't-want-go-creek." Meanwhile, his older brother Jude had stripped naked (any excuse at age 5... the good old days), and jumped in. In one fell swoop, sasbeau and I managed to get Liam out of his dirty drawers and dunked his ass in the rushing water. "I-don't-want-go-creek-I-don't-want-go-creek-I-don't-want-go-creek-I-don't-want-go-creek." In a heroic move, sasbeau scrubbed Liam's buns with his bare hand without a second thought (although he later shouted, "I HAD HUMAN FECES ON MY BARE HAND!" That you did, sasbeau—and then you made us dinner). As we ran back to the house, Liam must have been energized after his dip in the creek because he really started to pick up speed. I shouted, "Slow dow..." BAM! His sneakers skidded on the gravel and he skipped his knee and tummy. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when I wiped his bangs away from his face, that I saw the goose-egg forming on his forehead. He hit his head... ON OUR WATCH! Strike two. We held him, iced his head, made a milkie-baba, and all seemed right with the world. Sasbeau set forth on dinner preparation—tri-tip, mashed potatoes, and wine—while I gave the kids a bath. Jude wanted to wash his own hair, so with eyes shut tightly, he'd scrub-scrub-scrub his So-Cal surfer locks and say, "Am I done? Now? Now?" Afterward, he helped sasbeau set the table (we drank wine out of mugs that night), and shadowed him by the barbecue and in the kitchen. He couldn't quite get sasbeau's name right, so henceforth, he will be known to Jude (and maybe saskatch readers) as "Skits." I especially liked it when sasbeau belched and Jude cocked his head, put his hand on his hip, and said, "Ski-iiiits." Meanwhile, I was rocking a crying Liam. You see, the sun went down and suddenly he realized Mom was not there. "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom." So we rocked and half-watched Scooby-Doo until he'd remember he was upset, then more crying, then more Scooby. Eventually he fell asleep and Ski-iiits and I cheersed our mugs of vino. After dinner, we retired for a chapter from Jude's knight book. Turns out, at 5, this kid can read. We're not talking "run" and "fun" here—he sounded out "sword" and "lancelot". Then, he asked for an original story, which I thought I'd be great at creating, until I realized he was captivated by my opening about little boys in a knight school who had to find a dragon in the deep, dark woods. Writer's block—or teller's block, as the case may be—ensued and the tale crashed and burned. That could be why Jude nodded off in 2.4 minutes. Ski-iiits and I promptly hit the hay ourselves, and fell asleep to the sound of the babbling brook outside. A few hours later... "MOM! MOM!" I knew it couldn't be good. I ran downstairs (rather, a loft ladder) to Liam—dry diaper-check, cozy bed-check. I tried to adjust my eyes to the dark and said, "What's the matter?" Silence, then BARRRRRRRF down my nightie. I bathed him, changed him, changed myself, then back to bed for both of us. About an hour later, "MOM!" I ran to him, picked him up, got two steps to the bathroom, and BARRRRRRRF! Vom on the second nightie. Bathed him, changed him, changed myself, then brought him to bed with me and Ski-iiits. I dozed off and woke up to his big, brown trust-in-me eyes looking at me, then BARRRRRRRF. Eventually, Jude joined us in bed, too, his surfer locks standing straight up from his night's rest. Mom and Dad arrived home as soon as they got word of the vom-fest. Ski-iiits and I said our goodbyes and headed for the beach, where he surfed and I slept. And slept. Deeply.