Last Thursday was supposed to be a fabulous day. The kids and I were meeting Kady at Bennigan's for lunch, and that evening I was going to dinner and a show with mom. It was the kind of day a stay-at-home mom looks forward to, the kind of day we circle on the calendar with bright purple marker and exclamation points. But little did I know that it would also be the day that I learned the hard way that all good things come at a cost.
The kids woke up around ten, (that's right, ten o'clock baby!). We watched a few episodes of Super Why and got ready to meet Kady. So far so good, right? The kids look cute, I've got my new diaper bag packed and ready (I have a diaper bag problem, see previous blogs), and I'm ready for a lunch notably absent of peanut butter and jelly. I've got my bags over my shoulder, Noah by the hand, and Lilli is already out the door when I realize that I can't find my keys! I call Lilli back into the house, and begin hunting the typical spots where my keys sometimes "hide."
No dice. They are gone. Lost. Vanished. I try to get the kids to tell me weather or not they know where the keys are. Blank stares. Word World is on. So i try to get them to help me look, you know, "Super You with the power to help!" (hey, it works when Super Why says it). Then I remember that Tricia and Aaron used my Jeep last night. So I call Aaron. No answer. I call his cell phone. No answer. I finally break down and call Kady and tell her that my keys have gone AWOL. She says she'll come get us. God bless her. Then, as I'm hunting under the bed for the keys and fuming about the fact that I've never gotten a spare made, the phone rings. Now, I would like to say that I whisked myself out from under the bed, tossed my hair triumphantly out of my eyes, and answered the phone " good morning!" But unfortunately the truth of the matter is that I wriggled myself halfway out from under the bed, got my hair stuck in the box spring which I had painstakingly straightened that day (my hair, not the box spring), grabbed the phone, sure it was Aaron, and answered it half out of breath "do you have my keys??" He didn't. I made him go check the pants he was wearing last night. Still didn't. I did finally find them in the couch cushions, where I had of course looked at least a half a dozen times. I called Kady and told her to turn around, I'm on my way. So, much less put together, my munchkins and I headed off to lunch, going ever so slightly above the speed limit.
Kady meets us in the parking lot, helps me get the kids out of the jeep and even compliments my new diaper bag. God bless her. At this point, all I want to do is go in, sit down, order a drink and sigh with relief. No such luck. The wait is 20-30 minutes long. I am not worried about such a wait, even with a two and three year old. I had actually told a friend not too long ago, how good my kids are at restaurants, how they have been going out to eat since they were merely weeks old, that myyyy children are polite, well mannered, quiet, and generally well behaved. So we wait. While we wait, I start to fill Kady in on where we are in the process to become licensed foster parents.
Now, normal people tend to keep still and talk quietly while they wait for their name to be called. But not everyone chooses to take this approach. My son for instance, and as I'm told, two-year-old boys everywhere, prefer to pass the time in much more creative ways. Like running up and down the bar, singing what amounts to a punk rock version of Twinkle Twinkle at the top of his lungs. I leave Lilli with Kady and go after him. And as any mother of a two year old knows, the faster you go after him, the faster he runs. So we play this game for a while. He runs away and I bring him back. He runs away and I bring him back. Lilli actually sighs and says to Kady "when Noah is three like me he won't act like this." I smile politely at the people eating in the bar who comment on how cute he is. Yeah, freakin' adorable, I think to myself.
Eventually, Noah tires of running solely up and down the bar and decides to head for new terrain in the dining room. Well we certainly cannot have that, so I go after him and scoop him up. And he screams. And screams. Screams like I ripped his arm off and beat him with it. I continue to smile politely at onlookers when what I am really thinking is more alone the lines of "WHAT!?!? haven't you ever heard a two year old boy scream bloody murder and flail about like an epileptic rag doll before?!?!" I smile politely at the hostess when what I am thinking is more along the lines of "Why the heck haven't you called my name?!?! There are eight empty tables in there!!" But I keep my cool and calmly search my brand-spanking new diaper bag for the toys I must have packed in all my forethought and preparation. I find two matchbox cars. They'll have to do. They entertain him for approximately 3.6 seconds. Then he is off and running again, full speed into the dining room, a car in each hand.
I take off after him, my diaper bag swinging from my shoulder, dangerously close to whacking innocent diners in the back of the head. Eventually I catch him and scoop him up again in a motion that I hope appears to be fun-loving to spectators. He screams. And screams. And chucks those cars as far as his little arms can manage. It must have been miles. If he lives though this little episode, he'll have a career in baseball I'm sure. I hoist my bags back on my shoulder, heave Noah under my arm football style and bend down to retrieve the cars. As I am standing up again, I make eye contact with the nearest diner, and who do you think that happens to be? That's right, none other than one of our foster parent trainers. I have a brief vision of her at the office writing in our file something along the lines of "maniac- raises out of control children who assault strangers with matchbox cars" and stamping a big, red REJECTED on our application. Anyway, after about nine million years, our name is called and lunch proceeds pretty much without any further uprising from my little slugger. And in case you're wondering, I left a very adequate tip.
Because I won't have much time once I get home, I go over my mental game plan for the afternoon on the drive. Noah will go down for a nap immediately when we get home. I'll put my dress clothes in the dryer so I won't have to iron them, do my hair and makeup, wait for the babysitter, and head off to meet my mom for a grown up girls night out. But wouldn't ya know it, as soon as I had my plan set, the phone rings. And wouldn't ya know it, it's the babysitter. And wouldn't ya know it, she's canceling. I take a deep breath and count to ten. By the time I reach nine, I realize that my dad will probably be at my house anyway around that time, and I really didn't need a baby sitter anyway. Ha. I go on home, crisis averted. Ha Ha.
My dad has been at my house every single day since January, but do you think he showed up last Thursday? Nope. Do you think I could get a hold of him? Nope! No problem, I can handle this. I call Tricia and Aaron, my closest, most reliable friends. I feel slightly guilty that I'm calling to ask yet another favor, but I'm certain that they will, as always, come to my rescue. No answer. I begin to pace around my house. It's too late to call Nate and ask him to leave work early, he won't make it in time for me to leave. No one is answering their phones. I'm beginning to think that caller ID has a new added feature that looks something like this:
CRAZY WOMAN
555-123-4567
NEEDS A BABYSITTER
Finally, I get a hold of a friend who doesn't have the new caller ID feature, and she agrees to watch the kids. God bless her. By this time, I am already late. I throw on my dress clothes, flip my hair up in a clip, slap some powder on my face and run out the door wearing, I kid you not, MaryKate and Ashley lip gloss that I stole from Lilli.
So, what did I say before about good things coming at a cost?
new diaper bag - $3.00 at thrift store
lunch (including outrageous tip to make up for your son's behavior) - $78654.98
your daughter's lip gloss - $1.99
A grown up night out - priceless
Stay tuned for more adventures in the life of..... Super Mom!! (make that crazy, silly, frazzled, not so Super Mom!)
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