It all started a few days ago. For that reason I really feel I am not to blame, seeing as that was a whole weekend ago and I couldn't have seen the chain reaction coming.
When I talk on the phone havoc ensues. The loudest screaming, the most cacophonous banging, the worst uses of nail polish, balcony jumping, you name it, it happens when I am on the phone. Therefore, being a woman of reason, I limit my phone time to when I am in the car. Last week I made the mistake of checking my voicemail inside. When I heard the pediatrician's secretary say in her sing-song voice, "I'm calling about your appointment on Tuesday," I clicked delete and hung up the phone. I made a mental note to remember to go on Tuesday.
My track coach always said never to assume, that it makes an ass of "you" and "me", so when I showed up to the pediatrician this morning, (harried, because of course I had forgotten until thirty minutes before), I should not have been surprised by their anxious question, "Didn't you get our message?"
No, in fact I did not get their message because I avoid phone time and only listened to .1% of the message. How can I explain that?, and it wasn't their fault, so I rolled with it. We waited for forty-five minutes to have Sam weighed and then be booted back out the door to await their call for when we could reschedule. At this point I felt that it was still a kind of normal morning.
Did I mention that I felt a UTI coming on? Yep, and I had to get my husband to meet me in the parking lot of Target because I can't take my premature son into a germ filled grocery store, so he waited in the car while I walked into Target prepared to buy the whole dangum pharmacy if it would keep me from having to go to the doctor just to get an antibiotic I already know I need.
"No," says the male pharmacist while trying not to make eye contact with me, "there is nothing you can do to prevent it if it's already an infection. But you can buy the following.... to treat the symptoms."
So I did, I loaded my arms with $35 worth of symptom treating and slightly embarrassing products and headed to the checkout. Two were open, one manned by an awkward gentleman and one, a sweet girl. I steered myself for the girl and was cut off by a college dude with a backpack. Seriously?? I wanted to yell at him, and as I was in line I thought of paying him off for his checkout spot with the girl.
Cut your losses, Han, it's still a fairly normal day.
We get home and I am organizing and utilizing aforementioned purchases. As I go to check on the sleeping baby in the car William darts by, "I'm going to poop on the potty, Mom." Sigh, smile. My big boy is learning to use the potty. I am so stinkin' proud of him.
Two minutes later:
"Mooooom! There is poop on my leg!"
OK, this is no longer a normal day. I give up, grab the baby wipes and head to the bathroom, but William is running around the house whining about his issue.
"Mooooom, there is poop on the floor!"
I take baby wipes and grab him, wipe him down, and begin to wipe up the floor.
"Mom, there is poop on the wall tooooo!!"
Yep, he speaks truth.
I go grab my mop, grateful that I have my super expensive Norwex mop which is handy and easy to use. After mopping the floor, I break my mop. Yes, my super expensive mop which I am grateful for.
You, dear reader, may want to check on me later today. No, don't check on me. Come check on my children. I will be on a plane headed to Aruba and my kids will be needing adult supervision.
