Bad Day Sequel

Well, it's still the same bad day, but this is the follow up or sequel. I wonder what the prequel would've been. . . My Life Prior to Procreation. . .?

Naptime was met with little resistance from Greta and Sawyer, that is if you forget about the part where I physically had to pick Sawyer up as he was flailing and screaming and kicking my reproductive organs (I don't know techncally if I have more than one, but if I do, you can count them all), as he yelled that he wasn't tired. My response. . .normal children don't act this way, only tired children. I sat down at the computer after I put Sawyer back in his bed for the 2nd time and listened to the seconds tick on my kitchen clock. Time has never moved so swiftly. 

And then I remembered about the load of laundry in the dryer that needed to be folded, a load in the washer that needs to be dried, an art lesson I should probably prep for Gunnar's kindergarten class, a list I need to make for Target with high hopes that maybe I can actually go all by myself when Aaron gets home from work, the dog's empty water bowl, oh, and maybe the fact she probably has to pee since she didn't get to since maybe possibly this morning at 6am when the bad day signs began? I know that was a run on sentence, but my days are filled with basically run on sentences, nothing really ends, so I think it's pretty poetic if you ask me.

I managed to do laundry, dishes, vacuum, and watch an episode of Project Runway I had Tivo'd while they slept peacefully and soundly. When they got up it was time to go pick up Gunnar from school and Aaron was home by then, but he had some work to do at home and foolish me thought that I could bring the little ones with me and it's such a beautiful day, let's walk, and I brought no stroller or wagon. I set off pretty early knowing that their little legs were going to prolong the walk. And sure enough a usual 7 minute walk became a 45 minute scene out of a horror comedy child abuse prevention movie. Greta and Sawyer have different walking speeds, Sawyer runs, and Greta likes to walk as if she were a ballerina princess in 5 inch stilettos. Crossing streets is a challenge, but there's a lot of yelling and grabbing and threatening involved. 

It's interesting how many stares you get when you're with two toddlers and are crossing a busy intersection. You'd think I had just robbed a liquor store in lingerie and was a man by the looks I was getting. And I was crossing at a light with a walk signal and a crossing guard. We made it and Sawyer only had 2 timeouts within the school grounds. The walk home was a little hairy with 3 children now and by this point stilettos or no stilettos Greta wasn't hot on walking. We are about 2 blocks from home and the boys know to stop at every corner and we cross together. We are approaching the last corner, I have Greta on my hip and I see Sawyer run and not stop at the corner, but rather he runs full force into the middle of the street. I am screaming and running and no doubt getting some stares of a different kind as I race to grab him standing there, back turned to me, still in the street. I drag him to the corner and scared the living daylights out of him and told him when we get home is when he will have some punishment. By this time Gunnar is lecturing his brother on the necessity of being street safe and car accidents and blood and broken bones and what have you. 

Aaron must've heard the crying and screaming half a block away because he meets us on the front lawn and there's a look of half terror half angst as he tries to figure out what just happened. The normal afternoon chaos begins of "starving to death" whines and homework woes. My chance arrives to depart to Target and I am out the door. I think every time I walk out the door a little bit of Aaron wonders if I am coming home. It was the best 75 minutes I have had in 48 hours. I was able to walk down the aisles that I wanted to, try on clothes in the dressing room, and not buy a single toy. Okay, I bought some play doh but that doesn't count.  By the way, Target has some awesome sleepwear right now (cute camisoles and sleep shorts). Where was I? Oh, yes. Target. I don't think I uttered a single word to anyone from the moment my house door shut to the time I got home. In fact, at Target they don't ask how you are when you checkout, so I didn't even have to talk to the cashier. And on the way home I was so dazed in the quiet solitude of my car that I didn't even make the effort to change the song on the radio which was playing a tune, I can't remember the song, but it goes something like this feel the beat of the rhythm of the night, dancing til the morning light, forget about the worries. . . yeah you know the one. And know you're probably singing it he he he. 

My phone rings about a mile from home, it's my sister and wants to know when I'll be home, because she's there. Either she's calling because she needs something or has a question for me, or more likely she is stalling to leave because she fears Aaron murdering one or all of his children. As I walk in I am informed by my husband that my middle son must have a different father, one who illustratively has red horns and a scorpion-like tail. What did he do? What didn't he do? I get the part that there was cheese being flung on the floor because it happens to be white, funny how that is, white cheese. After I handle the white cheese flinging situation all seems well and the kids eat dinner and shower with dad. However I faintly hear this constant wailing about some scratch on someone's elbow and the need for bandaids.

This is something most people don't know in my household. Band aids are a big deal, usually a big problem. Gunnar hates band aids because it usually means he's injured and he'd like that not to ever happen. Greta is allergic to band aids. And Sawyer is obsessed with them. We have boxes of band aids everywhere. He goes through about a dozen a day. For no reason. The reason he goes through them so often is the whole OCD thing. A band aid can only be on Sawyer if it lays completely flat, has no wrinkles on it, and doesn't lift. You try doing that on a scratched elbow, see how that turns out for ya'. Needless to say, after 4 tries Sawyer and I both give up and decide we'll try again tomorrow on the whole elbow bandage dilemma.

Aaron leaves to go to a meeting after I gently remind him that I was only gone for 75 minutes and have been with them the entire day, thus consequences will follow this weekend. Teeth are then brushed, stories read, only with a few hysterics over which books have to be read. Greta wants to read about Belle and Cinderella and the boys would like to read about how pirates who are marooned on a desert island have to kill wild animals to survive, only to be struck dead by scurvy. Curious George was a good compromise. 

When you put all 3 to sleep by yourself, it's kind of like tag teaming. The boys get in bed first and get prayed with, then you take Greta up and put her to sleep after rocking for a few minutes, sometimes 24 minutes. Then come back downstairs to check on which child is roaming the house, or complaining for a drink of water, or needing to pee, or being scared of spiders crawling all over their bedroom walls. Then you get to eat, sometimes. This is usually when I get to enjoy a meal, always one that involves no noise of pots or pans or clanking or microwaving. Tonight's specialty was humus and pita bread, and a cold Newcastle.

Aaron came home only to change into work clothes because he has to inspect some elevators during the middle of the night tonight, and to comment on the fact I'm drinking a beer by myself. Would you rather I invite some neighbor men over to join me?

I hope tomorrow is a better day than today. It probably will be because I have to go to Dream Dinners tomorrow night at 7pm, which means no children allowed, which means I will be listening to my ipod, which means I will be alone, which means Aaron will be putting his three angels to sleep, which means I will be appreciated once more and possibly be able to sneak in a movie this weekend. . .possibly.

Because everyone has a bad day. . .even in Australia. 

(if you don't get that last line, please see book reference in my previous post!)