Why you gotta make me look like such a jerk, kid?

We live above a hair salon. Everyone there is lovely and always so kind to our kids. The hair salon also has a big glass door. I have a son who is obsessed with doors in general, and this one in particular. 

When we’re coming home, I have usually hauled the following up the stoop:

  • disassembled stroller
  • a huge tote that holds all of our stuff
  • a 25 pound baby
  • shopping bags
  • Julian’s bike

At that point we are all either hungry or tired. Usually both. 

Julian will plop down in the middle of the hair salon’s entryway and trace the letters of the owner’s name imprinted on the rug with his fingers, spelling the name. Again and again. I feel fortunate when I can prompt him to get up in time for paying customers to not have to step over him. For anyone not knowing what’s going on, it’s a bizarre sight. Meanwhile, Arthur walks in and out of the salon, interrupted with an occasional mad dash for the stoop in an effort to kill himself. Or me. 

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When I finally get Julian to get up off the (presumably dirty, but I don’t even care) floor, he proceeds to play with the door. Open, shut, repeat. He is deaf to my attempts to get him to GO UP THE STAIRS ALREADY, caps intended. At this point I am holding my wiggly toddler baby, 3 shopping bags, a big “diaper bag” tote filled with essentials such as sunscreen, cars, bubbles, and cheerios, and of course Julian’s bike. I am thinking about feeding these children lunch and getting them down for their nap. Dude, we are on a schedule! Close the damn door. 

Julian can’t hear me. He can’t ever hear me. It’s like that glass door has some deafening effect on his sensitive 3 year old ears.

And then I start threatening him. Sometimes I close the door to our staircase and start walking up the stairs. It usually works, but it means that Julian will start screaming. Also it means that I have to carry all my sh** halfway up the stairs and back down again, just to prove a point.

At this point the girls from the salon get quiet. And I know they are judging me. They see this 6 foot tall German who is barking at her blond, blue-eyed angel son in harsh, Nazi-esque German. They have no idea what’s going on or being said or even that this is a replay of what happened the day before and the day before that. I always feel a little bit like a jerk, or a lot bit, but oh my god just close the damn door already. Let’s go.

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