The Hostas: The First Tale from the Sippy Cup Gang
The rejuvenating delight of untainted alone time
Welcome to your first installment of Tales from the Sippy Cup Gang. You can find all the installments in this series here.
Once upon a time, nearly two decades ago, there was an idealistic young couple—Kiki and Pete—who cradled their first child–a baby girl–in their arms. “Isn’t she peaceful?” they said, starry-eyed. “How easy this will be!” Four years and 12 days later, holding their third, spirited daughter, they barely remembered their own names.
The girls–Juliet, Margaret, and Elsa–grew in spunk and sass. With a father in graduate school and a work-from-home mother with ADHD, their parents were a mess even before Baby Boy came along years later. The Gang quickly learned to take advantage of their parents’ constant state of exhaustion and distraction. Armed with sippy cups of watered-down apple juice, ‘washable’ marker-tattoos, and bedazzled scooters, they prowled the neighborhood like Mars, the bringer of war.
These stories are crafted from hazy memories, a thousand monotonously chaotic days, and modified names & details to protect delicate teenage egos. The most outrageous bits, however, are factual. Some things you just can’t make up. Hilarious, cringe-worthy, or tender, I hope these stories bring you what you need and remind you that the smallest things matter.
The Hostas
Just get up. It will be worth it.
I know that I am lying to myself. It’s never worth it.
I peel an eye open to glance at the screen of my phone where my alarm is currently snoozed.
4:51 A.M.
Gross. Why did I think it would be a good idea to try to catch the sunrise?
Because I’ll be alone. It’s been so long since I’ve been alone.
If I don’t count the 10 majestic minutes I had in the shower last week before the girls discovered me, I think the last time I was alone was when I had my pap smear. Not the one last year. I had to bring Elsa and Margaret to that one. But the one 3 years ago.
Lately, the girls have been “sleeping in” until 6:15. Which means that if I get out of bed now, I could have more than an hour to myself. My stomach flip-flops with something that feels like first date jitters. A whole hour. I start to shift my weight toward the edge of the bed.
“What are you doing? You need an extra hour of sleep way more than you need to be alone.”
Great. She’s back.
Verla.
Almost six years ago–right around the time Juliet was born–an obnoxious, critical voice started popping into my thoughts to share her unsolicited opinions. I tried to ignore the voice for a long time. But finally, sometime around sleep-deprived year four, I decided that maybe if I embraced her, she’d leave me alone. So I gave her a name.
Verla.
It didn’t help.
“Go back to sleep,” Verla coos. “You’re so tired this morning.”
So what? I snap back. I’m always tired.
“Yeah, but you know if you try to get up, you’re just going to wake up Elsa.”
I roll my eyes to show Verla she doesn’t know what she’s saying. But I feel a twinge of worry.
“You know I’m right.”
I glance skeptically at Elsa’s sweaty toddler curls plastered to her forehead and my left arm. After hours of fidgeting and fussing last night, Elsa finally fell asleep. On me. In my bed. At 11:37.
By the time Pete got home from studying at the library, I was passed out next to Elsa, still in my clothes, teeth unbrushed. He woke me up to let me know he was home and was going to move Elsa to her bed. But at my death-stare, he thought better of it and just went downstairs to sleep in the guest bedroom.
I lean my head down to examine Elsa. She’s splayed out on the bed, like someone dropped her down from the ceiling. You’d think that there’d be plenty of room for a 5th percentile toddler and grown person to sleep comfortably in a king-sized bed. Yet, somehow, every time she’s in our bed, I end up squashed over to one side with no covers and half of a pillow.
My arm that she’s currently using as a pillow is starting to go numb. Without thinking, I shift the tiniest bit. But it’s too much and her head slides down off my arm and onto the pillow.
No no no no no! Please don’t wake up!
I cringe and hold my breath, bracing myself for her piercing scream.
Nothing. Not even a tiny flinch.
I feel a little skitter of excitement. She’s in the “dead-to-the-world” phase of her sleep cycle. She doesn’t get there very often or stay there very long. But when she does, an entire circus could parade through her bedroom and she’d stay asleep.
Ha! Take that, Verla!
“Except,” Verla says in her annoying, know-it-all tone. “After your stunning parenting performance last night, you really can’t risk being an exhausted, ridiculous mess. Again.”
Juliet’s crumpled face from last night immediately flashes through my memory.
“What do you think you are doing?!” I had screamed as our last gallon of milk spread across the counter, doused Juliet and the cat, and pooled into a giant, white lake on the floor. I had been coming into the kitchen to grab my now-cold dinner after spending 45 minutes scrubbing diaper rash cream off the walls of the girls bedroom and out of Elsa’s hair.
“I was just trying to get my own milk. So I didn’t have to bug you,” Juliet’s lip had quivered along with her voice.
“UGH! Just ask for help, Juliet! You always make such a gigantic mess!” I regretted it as soon as it flew out of my mouth. I can still hear her sobs as she sprinted to her bedroom and slammed the door.
The shame from last night comes creeping back up into my chest. Verla’s right, of course. I should just shut off the snooze and reset it for a more humane time. I need all the help I can get to not be a miserable monster.
As I lean over to grab my phone to reset the alarm, I think I hear the muffled sound of an outside door closing. I crane my neck to peek out our window onto the deck and catch a flash of red through the crack between the blinds.
Which kid is sneaking outside at this hour?! I snag my glasses off my nightstand, thinking I can catch the culprit.
Instead, I see a cardinal. He is perched on the deck chair outside my window and seems to stare right at me. He tilts his head as if to ask “Well? Are you coming?” Then he flits away into the gray Iowa sky that is just starting to show tinges of pink.
The sun will be rising soon.
If I hurry, I can actually watch it.
Alone.
I can see myself lounging in the hammock, sipping a cup of steaming, hot coffee as the sky turns from gray to pink to vivid orange and finally brilliant blue. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with a desperate craving so intense that I almost can’t breathe.
I need this.
Before I can lose my nerve, I stealthily maneuver around the drooling toddler’s sweat-and-saliva-soaked head and creep out of the bedroom.
I can’t believe it.
I’m out of my room. Out of the house. Undetected.
I’m alone. Gloriously alone.
It is a cool, dewy dawn. A puff of sticky warmth swirls by on a whispering breeze. It’s going to be hot today, but for now, it’s perfect.
I bring the coffee cup to my lips, letting the fragrant steam tickle my nose for a moment before taking a sip. “Mmmm,” I murmur as the liquid slides over my tongue. Even the coffee is perfect this morning. I might even get to drink the entire mug while it’s still hot.
I shuffle through the dewy grass and gingerly lower myself into the hammock. It crinkles slightly, flakes of glitter glue and dried play doh fluttering down and disappearing in the too-long grass. I kick my legs up into the hammock, spilling a splash of coffee on my shirt.
HA! I chuckle. Take that, coffee! I even have on a black shirt!
I take another sip and glance up to catch the rosy sun peek above the roof of our neighbor’s house. A few Bob Ross-style clouds float lazily across the pinky-orange sky. The robins and song sparrows burst into exuberant song. The flowers in Pete’s garden are so vivid, they look like they’re glowing.
Even the mourning dove’s coo sounds celebratory. “Yeeaaahh! Yeah! Yeah! You kicked this morning’s cloaca!”
As I take another sip, I realize that I haven’t heard Verla since I stepped outside. It’s like the beauty in the world is so loud that everything else is drowned out.
A warm waft of spicy-sweet lily-scented air ruffles my hair. The first stargazers are blooming! I barely notice my coffee splashing over my bare feet as I scramble out of the hammock and over to the patch of yard where my favorite pink and white speckled blooms have finally burst open.
I crouch over the brilliant yellow stamens, gulping down the glorious smell. Why haven’t I been getting up at 4:50 every single morning for my entire life? If I could start every day with an hour like this, I would be such a better parent. Such a better human.
I catch a flash of red out of the corner of my eye and hear the gentle rustle of leaves behind me. I smile. My cardinal friend must be back to congratulate me. Another soft breeze skims my face as I turn around to thank him. I take in a deep, grateful, stargazer-lily-filled breath.
Could this morning be any more perf…UGH!!!
I stand up, nearly gagging. Instead of stargazer perfume, my nostrils are filled with a fetid odor reminiscent of overheated port-a-potty. Where could that be coming from?
I swivel around, scanning the yard for the source of this open-pit-of-hell stench. Did I forget the bathroom garbage bag full of used diapers next to the house again? I swore I put it into the garbage can last night…
My thought freezes as my gaze locks on the wide-open eyes of Juliet in a bright red shirt, just peeking over the Hosta plants. I shake my head and rub my eyes, thinking that maybe the noxious fumes are making me hallucinate.
Nope. That is definitely Juliet. How did she get out here?
“Juliet,” I say quietly, trying to channel Bob Ross. But my unused-early-morning-croaky-voice makes me sound more like The Godfather. “What are you doing?”
“I was…pretending. Pretending I was a cat,” she squeaks, her voice barely audible. She crouches lower, guilt seeming to radiate off of her as the fat Hosta leaves fan out around her waist like an elfin tutu. My eyes squint in suspicious confusion.
I involuntarily take a step toward her, drawn by the pull of my Suspicious-Acting-Kid-Magnet. Her guilt shifts to terror as I lean forward, spotting the top of two pasty-white bare butt cheeks hovering in the dense, shady sea of green.
“Are you naked?”
She doesn’t answer, her two unblinking eyeballs working hard to keep from popping out of her head.
And then I see it, just as the putrescence makes its way back into my consciousness. The fat brown swirl forms a neat little pile on top of an unfortunate Hosta leaf. It is so fresh I can almost see the heat steaming up and into my nostrils.
I feel like I should do something—grab her, grab it, run away—anything. But all I can do is stare down at that poop-filled, putrid leaf, mouth wide open, letting those fresh fumes flow right in.
“Wow. This is a new parenting low. Even for you.” Verla’s voice slithers back into my mind, dripping with disgust.
Not now, Verla. I try to focus my energy on figuring out what to do when I realize that Juliet has taken off, racing half-nude for the house.
“You better do something,” Verla chides.
Juliet has opened the deck door and is almost in the house before I find my voice and scream the only thing I can think to say:
“No pooping in the Hostas!”
What crazy things have interrupted your attempts at solitude?
I’m so glad you’re here—it is a true honor to share your time. If you like what you read, please consider liking or commenting on this post, subscribing, or sharing Unicorn Hollow with others. I offer my work for free, but you can imagine I’m doing a live reading at a coffee shop and can leave me a tip at my Ko-Fi account tip jar. Everything goes directly to support my family. Thanks for being my unicorn!
Boy, what a life you lead. 😂
This was incredible! SUCH good storytelling! And hilarious!