Morning Do-over

Each morning, the high school bus goes by at 7:00 am, notifying us that time is passing. The alarm goes off at 7:50 (hey, we both are working at our computers until midnight--cut us a little slack for our late arising), we get Samuel up, dressed, breakfasted, packed, and out the door for his bus at 8:35.

Except on Thursday. We missed the significance of the high school bus (I was dreaming that I was dancing at the inaugural ball with President Obama--really), and the alarm didn't go off. When the Gingerbread Man sat straight up in bed and asked, "What day is it?" I tore myself away from my ball gown and fox trot to consider the day of the week.

"Thursday!" I shout triumphantly.

"It's 8:30!"

"Shoot!"

I ran to deal with lunch and breakfast issues, the Gingerbread Man ran to get Samuel dressed.

In five minutes flat, he was out the door, gagging only a little bit on the piece of bread we shoved into him.

Feeling guilty the rest of the day, we promised ourselves we wouldn't do that to him again.

Until Friday. When the high school bus went by and I was dreaming about rock-climbing...

The phone message

"Hey, Heather, it's Fred. I just saw Lauren walk by...by herself...well, not by herself, actually...she's with these twin boys* that look about her age, but you know," he laughs nervously,"without an adult. And they were crossing the street. I asked her where she was going and she said that one of them had to go potty so they were heading home," another nervous laugh, "so probably by the time you get this, she'll already by home. Hope everything's ok...talk to you soon. Bye-bye."





*Karen's not-twin son, ages 8 and 10.

ETA: another friend's son, age 4, was returned earlier in the day by an Orthodox Jewish mom who didn't speak to him (because, she explained, she didn't want to make him talk to a stranger), and made the boy lead her to our house despite his protests that he and Karen's eldest boy were playing Manhunt.

A Safe Spot to Sit

Aunt Jo Jo is going to pick the girls up from school today. They've known this all week, but when they see the carseats in the entryway they get really excited because they know with certainty it's an Aunt Jo Jo pick-up day.

We were up front where we keep the shoe basket (thank-you Lady E) that is now overflowing with footwear attempting to find a left and right shoe for each kid when they spied the carseats. "Aunt Jo Jo is coming!" they sang out and began piling all the stuff they thought they should have this afternoon in the seats so Aunt Jo Jo would know to bring it with her.

Having found shoes and, as usual, running awfully late, I headed back to the kitchen to shove some food in the mouths of the children before rushing them out the door with smudged little faces. As I cut Kate's waffle into the specified "lots and lots of pieces" Sarah was calling to me from the front room. "I said a lot of pieces" Kate was saying as I yelled "Sarah, I can't hear you if you want to talk to me you need to come in here!"

Sarah continued to yell some unintelligible stuff that was gaining in a tone of urgency. "SARAH. I cannot hear you! Come in here." I called to her, putting cereal in the requested purple bowl with green rim and the new spoon not the old one for the kid who wouldn't come to the kitchen. The clock glared at me judgementally. I finished up a few more tasks while Sarah continued to yell at me.

"Mommy! I need your help!" she yelled. Finally, irritated, I gave up and stomped up front to snatch her up and plop her in her seat at the table. That's when I realized she'd buckled herself into her carseat and could not get the latches undone again. Then I laughed. "Hold on a second" I said as she wriggled and looked at me pleadingly. I ran and got my phone.

Fireworks...

I can honestly say that, as a couple, The Man and I's disagreements only get to the yelling/crying point about once a year. Today was that day. Cause nothing says "Happy 5th Birthday, Kid!" like the sound of your parents screaming and slamming doors.

Sorry, Boo. We suck.

Just for the Record...

I hate Mother's Day. I hate the people who brag about what their children made them for breakfast. I hate the expectations. I hate the cranky children.

I have it pretty good every other day of the year. Personally, I'd like to send fire ants to the founder of the "holiday."

Cranky children? Cranky mama.

What's Wrong with this Picture?

Photo taken December 12, 2008: Zane's one-year birthday.