I had a relatively good day today. A friend from church came over and helped fix a broken faucet and work out some issues on our minivan. I spent two hours cleaning our house which means it's gone from health hazard to marginally messy. (Does anyone else live in fear a friend will stop by unannounced and see exactly what a mess your house is? No? Just me?) Katherine, who refuses to take naps even though she needs naps, had fun making me a lunch of wooden foods and watching "Yo Gabba Gabba."
At 3:15pm, I left to go pick up the boys. Stop one was Gideon. I have to drive across our small town to pick him up at his therapy center. That part went okay and it was reported that he had a good, but emotional, day.
Katherine fell asleep approximately 27 seconds after being strapped in the car. That was just enough time to shove a chocolate chip granola bar in her mouth and cover herself with chocolate.
From there, I drove back to the other side of town to wait in line to pick up the big boys. This is the least fun 10 (or sometimes 20) minutes of my day. There is a teacher that waits about half way down the block from the school that walkie-talkies the car rider numbers to the school so the kids are waiting in line when I pull up. Today, though, she approached the van.
"Hi?" I said cautiously. This was different.
"Hi." She smiled. Not a cheerful smile of greeting, more of a it-sucks-to-be-you smile. "You're going to need to park when you get to the school and go to the nurse's office to pick up the boys."
No . . . no . . . no . . . no. "What? Why?" Please do not say it . . . .
"One of the boys threw up."
Ugh. She said it. I can handle sick kids. Colds, the flu, a broken arm, an allergic reaction but when my children start puking, It. Never. Stops.
So, I slowly and with building annoyance made my way to the school and found a parking spot. I woke up Katherine, hitched her over my shoulder, and took Gideon's hand and marched into the school. The school that had dismissed all their students fifteen minutes earlier.
Katherine was a dead weight on my shoulder and Gideon walked beside me obediently. The nurse met me at the front desk, the two boys behind her.
"Who threw up?" I asked.
"Daniel," she said. The boy in question grinned up at me. He already knew what throwing up at school meant.
"When?" I asked.
"3:31pm. He threw up in his classroom. A lot. It was everywhere. We had to change his shirt." She nodded at the too small shirt now being worn by Daniel. "I tried to call you."
At 3:31, I was picking up Gideon. Besides that, it's illegal for me to use my phone in a school pick up zone. Besides that, school was nine minutes away from releasing so I don't think getting a hold of me would have made a difference. I didn't say all that. I nodded apologetically.
Katherine woke up and demanded to "walk." So I set her down, even though she was still covered in granola bar chocolate and had no shoes on. (Winning lots of good parenting awards today).
The nurse handed me the school note which excused Daniel from the next day of school. (That was the part Daniel was extra happy about) and then had me sign my children out of school (after school was over so . . . okay).
It was at that point, I realized I was not holding Gideon's hand anymore. Which means, I had now lost Gideon. I panicked and reminded myself yet again why I do not ever, ever, ever go by myself with all four kids.
"Gideon?" I shouted and turned around in a circle looking for him but Ben, my helper and brother extraordinaire, was already with him, holding his hand. I love that kid.
I death-gripped Gideon's hand and picked up a squiggly, highly annoyed Katherine and headed for the door. Daniel (who has no fever or other identifying "sick" markers) and Ben shot out the door before me, not holding the door open. But, that's what God made feet for, to push open doors when your arms of full of unhappy children.
We made it to the minivan (in one piece) and loaded up. I needed to run by and pick up Carl's dry cleaning which is when Ben began to complain about life in general and how running this errand was ruining his life specifically.
"You know what I want?" he asked.
"No, no, I don't." I replied. "I know I just want quiet. Please. Just quiet."
"Oh, you want me to be quiet?"
"Yes."
"Fine. I'll be quiet."
"That would be wonderful," I said.
"That's all you want is for me to be quiet." Ben complained and I have to say he is already nailing his tortured, snotty, eye-rolling teenager voice. And he has like five more years to perfect it. Awesome.
"Yes!"
"Okay. Fine." I glanced at the rear-view mirror and see him with crossed arms and a scowl.
"When exactly does the quiet start?" I wondered aloud.
Then he is blissfully quiet . . . . for 30 seconds.
Daniel filled in the silence. "You will take me to the doctors so I don't have to go to school."
"You can't go to school tomorrow, Daniel." I sighed. "I'm not taking you to the doctor's either. How are you feeling?"
No answer.
"It was a lot of puke, Mom," Ben chimes in. "I wish I threw up. Then I could stay home."
As the only adult in the van, I did the only adult thing. I turned up the radio really loud and sang at the top of my lungs to drowned out the sound of all the children. All. The. Children.
We finally arrived home after ten minutes of Ben describing in minute detail every book selection in the new Scholastic Book Club pamphlet that came home. Katherine, who had remained fairly quiet up until now, began to throw the mother of all tantrums? Why, you ask? She didn't want me to take her out of her car seat.
Not kidding. The neighbor came out of her house and said, "Wow. She sure has some lungs on her."
Yes. Yes, she does. And she's not afraid to use them. I had to wrestle her out of the van, carry her inside, where she threw herself down on the ground and continued screaming for fifteen solid minutes because . . . who knows anymore!
I chased Gideon to the bathroom, noted Ben had striped down to his underwear already (because clothing is apparently optional in the house) and Daniel was settled into his seat at the table with his iPad.
"Mommy," he said as I walked by. "Can I have a snack?"
Argh! Really?
You know, I was feeling a little defeated and frustrated and angry. Okay, I was feeling a lot of that right then. My love tank was on empty. But I got a card and a sweet note in the mail from my aunt which I sat down to read instead of taking care of my children's endless requests for food, "Octonauts," and tablets.
She wrote:
"I guess what I'm saying is that I do understand how you feel. I remember the days of frustration and anger and guilt because I felt angry and frustrated . . . . Take advantage of any five minutes you get to yourself. It doesn't make you selfish. It makes you human. . . . . I am praying for you to have the strength and energy to care for your family that will help each member to grow and prosper."
Sometimes it helps to know you aren't the only one who just gets fed up. Sometimes those five minutes of sitting quietly (in a closet or wherever your safe place is) is what helps you survive the next three hours. Sometimes it just helps to know someone sees you trying and is praying for you.
Thanks, Aunt CC. Your note couldn't have come at a more perfect time.
Also, could someone let Carl know that I'm hiding in the upstairs closet? I haven't made dinner yet. And bring chocolate.
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