Keeping it real

Last week, one of my friends told me I seem to have it all together.

This week, we're working to prove her wrong.

My youngest is teething. Or has a stomach virus. Or both. Either way, horrendous things are coming out of both ends of him, and he's miserable. Which is making the rest of us miserable. Because honestly, you can only listen to the unending shrill cry of a ten month old for so long before you stop feeling sorry for him and start feeling sorry for yourself.

I know, I know. Poor baby. Teething is no fun. Especially when you're getting five teeth at one time. And nobody likes a stomach virus. I feel for him, I really do. But the crying had gone on so long and so loud this morning that I couldn't think straight anymore and had to call for help to do some basic math adjusting a dosage of ibuprofen for his weight.

Turns out it didn't matter. He threw it up anyway.

So I did the next logical thing. I changed shirts for the fourth time since he started throwing up on me two hours earlier, put a change of clothes for everyone else in a beach bag, told the older siblings that the three bites of breakfast they'd had was plenty, and put everyone in the car in their pajamas to head to the doctors office. For the second time in four days.

Then I stopped, went back inside to get shoes for everyone, and we were on our way.

By noon, the one with the virus and swollen gums was feeling a little better, thanks to some prescription anti-nausea medicine, a new teething toy and a big sippy cup of pediatric electrolyte solution.

The other two were starving (apparently 16 cheerios is not a sufficient breakfast) and waiting impatiently for me to clear their cereal bowls from the table and make them some lunch.

For reasons I still do not know, there were about 40 sheets of white construction paper strewn all over the kitchen floor. This seemed unimportant at the time, but would come to matter later.

I sat my kids down to a delicious and highly nutritious lunch of Nutella sandwiches and blackberries. Then I threw a big handful of cheerios on their plates, to make up for breakfast. I filled their cups with 2% milk instead of whole, because the gallon of whole milk doesn't expire until next week, and I noticed my 2% milk expires on Saturday. Abby was not fooled, and demanded to know why her milk tasted "skinny."

Really Abby? I'm feeding you chocolate and cheerios for lunch, and you're complaining about 2% milk?

Jacob would not drink his off-brand Pedialyte at the table, so I let him down in hopes that he'd stop screaming again so I could eat my lunch in peace.

That's when I realized I hadn't made myself any lunch. I reached for a rice krispie treat to hold me over until the kids are napping and I can make myself a sandwich. I'm pretty sure I forgot to eat breakfast, what with the loading the kids in the car in their pajamas in a hurry and everything. So I grabbed one more rice krispie treat, for good measure.

Jacob chooses this moment to begin eating the construction paper that I had decided to clean up later. I apologized profusely to my youngest for taking a moment to myself, removed the paper from his hands, and convinced myself that whatever he swallowed didn't matter, since he'd probably throw it up anyway.

When lunch was over (marked by the high-pitched wailing of the infant and game of air hockey Abby and Caleb had begun playing with their cheerios) I left the remains of both our pitiful breakfast and our pitiful lunch littered from the table to the sink. I shuffled the kids upstairs to get ready for naps and noticed that they have destroyed whatever organization I once had going on with their toys in the living room. And since we were out of the house all morning, I'm still puzzled as to how they did this. Broken and half-chewed cheerios are scattered throughout the downstairs. Overturned cars and trucks have been abandoned in the foyer. There is a trail of princess shoes and hair ribbons lining both sides of the stairs.

Abby's big comfy rocker is overturned, and the cushions are in her brother's closet. I don't know how it got this way, but I know the only adequate punishment is to remove the chair from her room completely.

"But...but..." she screams, big heavy sobs shaking her little body as she watches me drag her chair down the hallway, "this is very, very sad!"

Yes, it is.

In the bathroom, I find a makeshift shelter that Caleb has set up to sleep in. I instruct him to take his pillow and all his blankets and animals back into his room and put his comfy clothes on for naps. Soon he is naked, and running laps through the upstairs bedrooms, and I realize that in my weakened state I've lost whatever authority I had over these little people.

Jacob is finally in his crib for his nap, but has decided today is the day he'll start throwing his blankie and puppy and dinosaur out of his bed, get upset because he can't reach them, and then scream until I give them back. Babies are not the most logical creatures I've ever met.

Eventually Caleb and Abby are clothed and kissed and read to, and are quiet in their rooms for what I hope is the next three hours.

My downstairs looks like a suburban mommy war zone, with Target bags piled high, butter knives sticking up at odd angles from jars of peanut butter and Nutella, sippy cups laying on their sides, soiled baby clothes in the sink, crayons and coloring books scattered around the kids' craft table and a few dirty diapers here and there that haven't quite made it to the trash can. My unfinished mocha sits on the edge of the counter, a sad reminder of how my day started.

Maybe next week I'll get my act together. Today, I'm just hoping to not be thrown up on again.