Like my mama said, “There will be days like this…”
At my age you develop some peace with truths about yourself.
Truth #1-I not now, nor will I ever be, a morning person. My daughters are not now and are sure to never be morning people.
Truth #2-I stink at housekeeping. I try, I swear I do. But despite years of training (thanks mama) I just have never mastered it. Picked up is about all I can attain. I keep trying and failing to be the happy homemaker.
Truth #3-I fly by the seat of my pants. No matter how hard I try to prepare, preplan or prep things always come apart and I end up winging it.
There are plenty more ‘truths’ but these are enough to set the ground work for today’s little tale of my domestic prowess.
Weekend away = Monday’s from hell.
Hell I say. No groceries. Everyone wearing their emergency underwear—you know the pair that have no elastic whatsoever and a hole or two. Everyone is tired and cranky and hasn’t done their Sunday chore of prepping for Monday (I told you I try). Good weekends away are worth the price you pay on Monday. Really, they are-At least on Sunday’s. Monday’s not so much.
This Monday was a 15 on the ‘cluster potential’ 10 point scale. Full work day with 3 mega projects looming. Chunky Monkey had her first tee ball practice at 5:30. With her nervous breakdown scheduled for 5:45. Sassy Pants had practice from 7:30-9 and Stud Muffin has swim practice from 6:30-8. All in different parts of the county of course. I went to bed dreaming of logistics and woke up recalculating trip times. Such thoughts do not make for a very chipper morn.
Let’s just go ahead and skip to the afternoon. 4:00p realize that it’s not looking good for me to leave on time. Call the house. I start, “Hey baby…listen, tonight’s going to be…” and I stop because she’s started chanting, “wait-wait-wait-wait-wait”. Not a good start. While I am counting to 978,892 she says, “YYYYYOUUUUUU SAID we HAD to do our CHORES FIRST so I unloaded the dishwasher and walked to dog but NNNNOOOWWWW I have to do my HHHHOOOOMMMEEEWWOORRKKK….” When she starts making single syllable words into multiple syllables I know it’s not going to end well. She also has this uncanny ability to make the word YOU sound like the most derogatory and rude word in the English language.
I interject, “Listen. To. Me.” I can hear her eyes roll thru the phone. “Your baby sister has her first tee ball practice. I will be coming to get you and your brother a little after 5p….” she starts sputtering….”I WILL. Bring your homework and you can do it while…” The world explodes. Evidentially requesting she bring her homework is the worst idea-like-ever. “If YYYYOOOOUUUU hadn’t made us to our CCCCHHHHOOORRRESSSS first-ahhhhhh I would have had my homework DDDUUUNNNNNNEEEEE but NNNOOOO…..” Mid nnnnnnnnn I respond in the most mature and responsible way possible. I hang up the phone. Yep, be proud.
The phone rings. I pick it up. “YYYYOOOOUUUU….” But I don’t give her the chance. “Be. Ready. Totally. Ready.” We disconnect.
The text starts chirping. Sassy Pants is an academy award nominee for her performance in ‘Daddy I don’t know why Mama is Mad’. They forget that when one of them text me I see the string of responses. Her version of the conversation should be published under fantasy. I respond. You know exactly why Mama is Mad. Get your bat bag, get your uniform, get everything you need together and be ready. You will be going to watch your sister’s practice. Her response, My glove is at the other house. This is a smart child. This is not a smart text. The ‘other house’ is a block up the street. Get it! I responded and then silence the phone so I can get my work done.
Other than my son forging in his Chex Snack Mix like a squirrel preparing for hibernation (I don’t know if squirrels hibernate but I wouldn’t correct me if I were you) the entire 15 mile trip to tee ball the afternoon was uneventful. Well other than his blustering and puffing when I warned him he might be a few minutes late to swimming. Unlike his sister he got one good look at my face and promptly said, “Sorry” and went back to pilfering his snack mix. Wise choice man wise choice.
Miracle of miracles, we got to tee ball practice only 15 minutes late. We missed the meltdown. Small blessing. We did get there in time to see her walk to first base during the BASE RUNNING session. I also witnessed the only tee-baller in history to get a hit off the tee with one hand while sucking her fingers from the other hand. She then took 3 running steps before backing it down to a slow saunter to first.
Mid-saunter I had time to check my email to confirm the fields Sassy was practicing on. Panicked I thought I read that I had gotten the time wrong for Sassy’s practice. I proceed to make an spectacle of myself hollering for Sassy and Stud while giving Chunky a thumbs-up-be-brave sign as ran…yes ran…up the hill to the car.
I was wrong. I had not mis-read the email. Practice was still at 7:30 so I jogged back down the hill to be sure I hadn’t traumatized chunka. She was fine. Coordinated pick up time with her Dad and re-hollered for Sass and Stud who, for some reason, thought they were free to go play baseball while I was running around like a spastic chicken.
Stud got to swimming. I had enough had time to feed Sassy and Chunka. I have taken a moment to breathe so all is right with the world. I am feeling like mother of the year as I roll up to softball 10 minutes early…HOLLA….. That feeling quickly turns as we get to the field and Sassy says, “Uh-oh.” Time freezes. “I forgot my glove.” She’s a lefty so it’s not like she can borrow one. “Can you run home and get it?” I start my speech on responsibility and she starts her excuse that it’s my fault because she got her glove from the other house but then, ‘….YYYYOOOUUUUU cccallleeddddd….” and it got left on the table. My reaction isn’t worthy of my mother of the year nomination so we will leave that part out.
I get the glove and get back to practice. I get my revenge when Sassy steps up to bat. She misses. Her coach tells her to get mad. I yell, “Yeah…get mad like you’ve gotten your phone taken away.” She hollers back, “But I didn’t. It’s in the car.” I maturely holler right back at her, “It was in the car when I had to go back home to GET YOUR GLOVE. Now it’s not. Hit the ball.” Turns out anger DOES help hitting because she nailed a line-drive right down the 3rd base line.
9p practice is over. Everyone has gotten where they needed to be in the generally vicinity of WHEN they needed to be there. I am about to put this day in the books. Until I realized that I hadn’t been to the grocery store like I planned. That little trip home had ruined by carefully laid out schedule. So I load chunka and stinky sassy…literally stinky sassy…into the car. I spend the 10 minute drive driving home the necessity of DEODARANT.
We break speed records zooming in and out of the aisles of publix. I manage to get some semi-healthy snacks, breakfast food and even ingredients for a dinner or 2 in about 10 minutes. I only gave in once and it was largely because the salted caramel hazelnut spread screamed MY name. I relented. They needed bed time snacks and I needed a quick stress reliving fix. It was BOGOF. Win-Win, right? Anything resembling peanut butter can’t be all bad, right? We got a chocolate and the salted caramel jar. I paid for it while Sassy went and got spoons. I keep forgetting that I am not good at this thinking ahead thingy. In my mind it was perfect. We all got a spoonful of deliciousness on the way home. A) discouraged anyone from talking B) saved us 10 minutes since it was already after bed time and C) it’s salted caramel…I didn’t really have a valid reason for eating it other than I WANTED TO. So that’s exactly what we do. We all get spoonfuls of gooey goodness to end out a very, very stressful day. I am proud that I thought about collecting the spoons and placing them in the plastic trash bag I had found for just such an occasion. Score one for the mom.
Perhaps I was a bit too proud of myself. This morning as I am manually manipulating my limp cranky Chunka into her car seat I notice a smear of the ceiling of the brand new, less than 1250 car. It doesn’t register. As I peer in the rearview mirror during my “Don’t-hit-friends-in-the-head-with-the-puzzle-boards” lecture I notice it again. I say, “What’s that on the ceiling?” to which I get, no lie, “I no-no what ‘dat is mama. I know it’s not chocolate peanut butter up der. It’s not,” I put my head on the steering wheel is despair despite the fact that I am traveling 50+ mph. “Chocolate peanut butter on the ceiling, really?????” She isn’t finished, “Not me Mama. I no-no who dat that tootie butter up dar. It no me. I dink it Sissy. Sissy did it Mama,” her little face contorts into an angry face that looks shockingly like mine. She folds those plump arms over her chest and says, “Dat Sissy!”
Anyone know how to get chocolate and salted caramel hazelnut spread smears off the interior cloth ceiling of a car?