While running on the treadmill at the gym this afternoon, I found myself reflecting on the day so far and feeling quite pleased. Of course there were the usual incidents of sister hitting brother in the face with a plastic screwdriver, sister dumping her cup of Cheerios on herself in the car and singing with glee, and brother melting down over me giving him an orange popsicle over a red one. And obviously because Mommy (a.k.a. Barbara Crapper, the culinarily inept sister to Betty Crocker) tried a new recipe -- homemade chicken nuggets -- she burned herself when oil splattered all over the stovetop and cabinets. Those events are givens on any old day.
And maybe it was because the children were clear on the other side of a 15,000 square foot facility, but I did feel content and peaceful while running today. And I thought to myself, STUPIDLY, that despite these and several other less than pleasant events, "This has been a pretty good day so far."
Moms! If you find yourself wanting to say this statement, or even think it, don't! This thought is not allowed to cross your mind until the kids are asleep and it is after 8:00, the house is picked up, and your wine / beer is in your hand. THEN you may think this. NOT at 4:00 when the day is still young.
Mommy should have known better.
Work-out ends and serene Mommy goes to childcare room to retrieve the children. Immediately upon entering, I see my 18-month old daughter standing at the front desk with a childcare worker. Apparently she had just made a gift in her diaper and they were about to page me to come deal with it (which would have interrupted my happy time, so I am glad she held it a few extra minutes). I pick her up and immediately smell that yes, indeed, their assessment is accurate. My son comes running and I ask him to go retrieve his shoes out of the cubby. After a few seconds, he reappears with a look of confusion and tells me they are not there. Of course they are there, Buddy. Look again. Nope, Mommy. Okay, the stench coming out of her butt is really brutal. Let's find the shoes and get going, okay? I give the childcare worker a description of the shoes, and we all begin looking. We look and look. And look. They are gone. Apparently some other 3 or 4 year old little boy thought my son's PRECIOUS Buzz Lightyear shoes that LIGHT UP were so cool that he wanted them for himself. And apparently the parent-of-the-year who picked up said child did not notice his new shoes.
Now that I have searched the entire childcare facility, all the while holding stinky-butt, I (in a very obvious loud and irritated tone directed at the gym employees) tell my son that "He was just going to have to walk to the car in socks" and that "Mommy will go to the store tomorrow and buy him new shoes because those are the only shoes that currently fit him." Petty? Yes.
Once we reach the car, I start it up and notice that the external temp is 102 degrees. I change my daughter's vile diaper in this heat, pack both kids into their seats and head home. My son cries the entire 10 minute drive about losing his shoes. "I don't want new shoes from the store! I want my Buzz Lightyear shoes! Where are they? Let's find them!" Over and over and over. Thank you to the oblivious parent whose child now owns my son's shoes.
We arrive home, and although Mommy would love a shower, I recall that there are clothes in the washer that have to be dried before bedtime -- namely my son's mattress cover and sheets, since he soaks through his pull-up and pees his bed nearly every night. While I am quickly switching the laundry (and bear in mind we have been home for 3 minutes) I hear the kids fighting and they come tearing into the laundry room. He pushes her (he claims because she pushed him first), she falls over, cries, which causes him to cry because he knows this isn't good. Mommy explodes, putting each in separate rooms. I decide this is a good time for my shower.
15 minutes later, feeling somewhat refreshed, I begin to prepare dinner -- the meal I spent over an hour preparing earlier -- dicing chicken, marinating it, covering it in egg followed by a flour-panko-salt-pepper-garlic mixture, frying it in oil, and baking it. The arm burns and 2 dishwasher loads were totally worth it because I made chicken nuggets! Surely the kids will approve?
To quote my son, "Mom, where did you get these chicken nuggets? Why are they so bad and gross?"
Lesson learned, Mommy. Never speak (or think) too soon.