Because We All Need to Laugh

It was either start (1) screaming, (2) weeping, or (3) laughing. Today I chose the latter. Let me start at the beginning . . .

I am about four days into an illness. My sleep has been totally trashed by the baby lately . . . well, make that for five months now. But I am trying really hard.

Today I saw on my little homeschoolers' co-op calendar that the kids would be meeting at the parish gymnasium for free play. My kids adore participating in this and I figured we had to pass the afternoon somehow or other, so I'd take them there.

As I'm walking out the door, Chris points out that we should run a short errand to the bank. Some papers are finally ready. We need them notarized. There is a deadline approaching. Okay, that makes pragmatic sense, let's do it.

We take two cars to the bank (Margaret screams the whole way). I sit in the parking lot with the children and the nice notary comes out to my van for me to sign.

Waiting in the parking lot: chubby 5-month-old squeezed into 12-month-size clothing

Just for fun: compare how similar five-month-old Margaret looks to six-month-old Mary wearing the same outfit!

Chris drives his car back home and I continue on to the parish (Margaret screams the whole way). I have to tell the kids that my throat hurts enough that I can't keep up conversation with them while we drive.

A main road in town is out due to a 24-foot sinkhole, so I have to drive ten minutes out of my way. Traffic is pretty dense because it is school pick-up time on a Friday afternoon.

We arrive to the parish 35 minutes late. Nobody is there. I knew that there probably would not be many kids participating today but I figured that since we have about 100 homeschooled kids in our co-op, there would be somebody.

I was mistaken.

We couldn't even play in the empty gymnasium because the custodian was in there setting up tables and chairs.

So I took the children to the attached elementary school playground. They tried to play in the 90-degree heat, but most of the metal equipment was too hot to touch, plus the playground is built for children ages six and above, so most of the equipment is too big for my kids. The children make their own fun by finding bits of interesting trash in the wood chips and bringing them to me for inspection.

I give up trying to salvage our outing and tell the kids that we have to go home now.

But it turns out that it was time for parents to pick up children from that school. I'm not familiar with such routines, but I've heard from other parents that they are complex affairs. Indeed, when I tried to pull out, a teacher ran screaming over to me to STOP. "You may not leave until I dismiss you!" I apologized for not knowing and pulled back into my spot. That's when I noticed that every single car in the parking lot had backed into their spots except for me (I'd arrived when the lot was empty). We sat, held hostage, in the parking lot for about 45 minutes while every single child was loaded into his or her parents' vehicles. (I nursed the baby during this time.) Once everyone was loaded and there were no children or parents walking in the parking lot, teachers who were stationed all over the lot began pointing to each car, dismissing it to leave. Like an orchestrated ballet, each car pulled out one at a time. I left when I was dismissed. I don't criticize the process--hey, the kids were definitely quite safe--but it was a lengthy procedure!

We drove home, with the baby crying and the children fighting the whole way about whose turn it was to sing. I wanted to shout at them but God prevented me from that ugly behavior by giving me such a sore throat. We had to take the detour home again. Traffic was even worse now.

The baby had finally fallen asleep about ten minutes before arriving home. Of course, she hadn't had an afternoon nap, so I knew she needed to sleep for a couple of hours. As we pulled in, I begged the children to exit the car quickly and quietly so I could whisk the baby upstairs and get her to fall back asleep in her crib. (She won't stay asleep in her car seat if transferred, and the garage is too hot this season to leave her in there.) Of course, the children were slow and loud exiting the car, so the baby was fully woken. By the time I got her upstairs, into a fresh diaper, and nursed, I was fairly confident she would not fall asleep. But I left her in her Pak-N-Play anyway, just in case. She began crying again.

I came downstairs to give the children a snack of chocolate milk. John ran to get the Ovaltine and milk while I helped Mary take off her underwear for a potty check. And that's when I discovered that her underwear were soaking wet. So, I dealt with them while sending Mary to visit the bathroom--and she disappeared.

Meanwhile, the whole time the baby is screaming over the monitor.

I was dealing with something in the chaos when I realized that Mary was missing. She emerged from the pantry and I asked her what she'd been eating.

"Nothing."

This photo was taken a whole hour later to document the now much-faded evidence of the "nothing" (chocolate powder) Mary had been eating in the pantry.

Meanwhile, John had set up a chocolate milk-making station on the kitchen floor. "John, please let me do that. Please don't do it by yourself."

"No, no, I'll just put the powder in. You pour the milk."

I know this is a bad idea. Not that it's always a bad idea, but I have "a feeling."

John walks over with a cup of Ovaltine powder, trips, and drops it on the ground. Powder poofs over a wide area of the floor.

My boy walks in the powder with his shoes to see what will happen. I cover my face. Don't scream, don't scream.

"John, please stop. Just stop. Take off your shoes."

John starts walking across the room to go somewhere else to take off his shoes. He is tracking chocolate powder behind him.

"No, John! Sit on your bottom to take off your shoes! Sit right there!"

Meanwhile Mary has walked over and starts walking in the powder with her bare feet to find out what the excitement is about. At telling John to sit down, Mary sits down, with her still-bare bottom in the chocolate.

The baby is still screaming hysterically over the monitor.

Somewhere in there (with me covering my face, telling myself internally, don't scream, don't scream), Chris announced, "I'm going to get us take-out for dinner." (He knew I could not be induced to take an exhausted baby who had not napped to a restaurant during her fussiest time of day.)

And that's when I had a good hearty laugh at the absurdity of it all. The kids looked perplexed and worried at this strange reaction of mine!

Chris ended up doing even better than getting take-out for us: We decided that he'd take the two kids out for a special daddy dinner and I'd stay home with the baby in peace and quiet.

Baby is now napping. I am eating leftovers. The house is silent save for the hum of the washer and drier. And I am one happy mama!