F-

Note: I am belated in posting this.  I fumed this out in the wee hours of Saturday, September 3. 
   
Bad day yesterday.  Bad day.  Ugly, ugly, ugly.  For those of you who have read Loving the Little Years, it was an F-.  Not even 11%.


     The morning started out fairly well.  I haven't taken the time to get my hair cut since April, so I scheduled a trim for myself mid-morning and decided to run three additional errands while we were out and about: canning lids from the grocery store (so I could tackle the salsa that's been waiting in the refrigerator for two days when we got home), black Sunday shoes for Willem and Marie for fall/winter, and jeans for Mama, those last three items from one of the three thrift stores in town.  Very do-able.  I was even to the salon early, a notable achievement for me.  (Nevermind that I had intended to run the other three errands before getting a haircut.)


     Things started going down hill already there.  I ended up waiting for my turn for a while, and by the time I hopped in the chair my kids had pretty well exhausted the toys in the play corner and were starting to speak to each other in raised voices.  It was after I had twice gracefully left the chair (green cape and all), once to deposit a shrieking Marie on a nearby seat ("You will sit there until Mama is done, Marie.") and once to rescue a bawling Nathan with a stinky diaper from crawling through the hair on the floor (he remained on my lap for the duration) that I remembered why I haven't had my hair trimmed since April.


     First thing when we got to the van was a messy diaper change.  Then gas, an errand I hadn't planned on, but one that proved necessary.  $60.  Ouch.  Then shoes.  Predictably, Willem was the first one out of the van, and he went tearing down the sidewalk to the front door of the store, Marie hustling along behind him.  It was after I had freed Nathan from his seat and was turning to shut the van door that I saw Marie stumble and dive headfirst into the pavement.  Her face hit the concrete and bounced back like a rubber ball.  It was one of those slow-motion moments, if you know what I mean.  This is going to be bad, I thought.  Ugly, ugly, ugly.  And I was right.  Within seconds Marie's top lip was three times it's normal size.


     I should have packed them all up right then and headed home.  They have shoes they can wear to church for a while, and I own several belts.  I could have grabbed canning lids while they waited in the van for 20 seconds.  But instead of I thought about the $60 worth of gas and decided to get the other errands done.  


     Partial success at store #1.  Shoes for Marie: check.  But Nathan had a melt-down while I was paying for them, and I made a comment to the woman behind me (who was calmly shopping with her mother and a neatly swaddled baby) that it was time for us to go home.


     Too bad I didn't heed my own advice.  I decided to detour from clothes shopping to get the canning lids and a snack for the kids (lunchtime being dangerously close and Marie's incessant whimpering about her swollen lip getting on my nerves).  They were all delighted with the pudding-filled long john we shared on the way to store #2.  


     Potty break at the public restrooms next to store #2.  No success at store #2.


     Store #3.  It is noon, and Friday, the day everyone with a day job around here goes out for lunch, and there's no place for me to park except across the street.  I am a farm girl.  I hate crossing the street, with a bazillion eyes on me, and now with three kids in tow, one who's lip is three times it's normal size.  We wait for the green light, wait for the cars turning right.  Head across.  And wouldn't you know it, the light turns yellow when we are only halfway across.  And the guy first in line at the light has his left hand holding his cellphone, blocking his peripheral, and he starts moving forward.  His wife hollers and he brakes, and there I stand, with my three kids, the swollen lip, and my heart about ready to pound of my chest.  I could reach out and give the hood of that van a nice little pat, it's so close.  Or sock it real hard.  Or give it a kick.  Instead, I glare at the cell phone guy - really glare, I mean, the whites of my eyes are bulging - and tremble the rest of the way across.  


     You have to climb 63 steps to get to the second floor of Store #3, on which the children's shoes are located.  O.K., so I didn't count, but it is a huge, old building with very tall ceilings and a lot of steps.  I huffed the whole way up those 63 stairs about whatever individual had made the decision to put the children's clothes in the highest, farthest corner of the store. In spite of my huffing, we did find shoes for Willem.  Check.  Then back down.


     Last item of business: jeans for Mama.  I grabbed half a dozen pairs in various sizes off the rack, accompanied by Willem's unhelpful comments that I should choose one of the "cool" pairs with the holes in the legs.  And how old is this child?  Then to the dressing rooms, which unfortunately do not have doors that shut (and lock), but bed sheets that hang from shower rods as a barrier.  You've seen what kids do with laundry hanging on a clothesline, right?  So I have no way to contain my children (at this point, Willem - fueled by the long john - is bouncing off the walls, and Marie is still whining about bouncing off the pavement) and they now have curtains through they which they all run (or in Nathan's case, crawl).  And I am on one side of the curtain trying on blue jeans, and the rest of the general public is on the other side.  


     Surprise, surprise...I did not decide on a pair of jeans.  I fumed my way to the line at the checkout counter, where I ordered Willem to hang onto one leg and Marie to hang on to another while I hung on to Nathan and waited my turn.   They immediately began to play peek-a-boo around me and I immediately remembered that I was shopping for jeans because the ones that I was wearing were too big and were quickly inching their way down, aided by the hands of my giggling children.  And I start huffing about whose fault it is, anyway, that I wear umpteen sizes every year...


     It was after the clerk had rung up Will's shoes that I realized my wallet was in the van with the canning lids.  Back out of the store.  Wait for the green light.  Cross the street.  Strap them in.  Crack the windows.  Threaten Willem if he even thinks about touching the lock...  Grab the wallet.  Wait for the green light.  Cross the street.  There, sitting, on the bench outside Store #3 is the Grandma from Store #1 with the neatly swaddled baby, still neatly swaddled, and she is giving me a curious look, wondering, I suspect, why this frazzled woman has not gone home like she said should and considering reporting me to the authorities for daring to leave my children in the van on such a warm day.


     Go inside.  Pay for the shoes.  Wait for the green light.  Cross the street.  Drive home.  I fume (aloud now) the  first half of the way, until Will cries and says he is sorry.  Pray (aloud still) the second half of the way home, whiny prayers like "Lord, I can't do this.  Lord, you've given me more than I can handle.  Lord, what have I done to deserve this?"  And so on and so forth.  Hideous, whiny prayers.  


     I fume my way through leftovers for lunch, put the kids down for a nap, feel sorry for myself and waste 30 minutes cruising the Internet and e-mailing my husband about my horrible day.


     Willem doesn't nap, of course.  He bounces around his bed like he bounced around the stores.  So I put him to work helping me tidy, wash dishes, make supper.  B.J. comes home late, so supper has been on the table for over half an hour by the time we sit down to eat.  And throughout the meal he makes unhelpful comments about was I disciplining when the children disobeyed, etc. - and these are comments, believe it or not, that he makes by not saying anything, and I sit there and pout partly because he is not being sympathetic about my ugly, ugly, ugly day and partly because - Rachel is right - I know who needs a spanking, and it's me.  


     Bed-time.  And at 3 A.M. when Nathan wakes me up with sore gums and a wet diaper I am so still worked up that I can't fall asleep for over an hour.  






...to be continued....