I’m sitting at the computer, proofreading some pages for Brilliant Star while the kids have a snack. Just two more pages to go when I realize nature’s calling. I don’t want to break my proofing stride, so I hold off going to the bathroom and finish those two pages.
Just as I’m getting ready to save the file of my edits so I can send it in, BoyWonder spills his rice milk. Shoot. Leave the computer and wipe up sticky mess. Milk all over BoyWonder’s clothes. Strip him down. Something doesn’t smell right. Poopy diaper. Shoot. Take him upstairs, change his diaper, wipe down his stickiness, and get him some new clothes.
Putting his clothes in the hamper, I remember the load of laundry I left sitting in the washer overnight. Shoot. Go downstairs to run it through a rinse cycle so the clothes don’t get sour.
On the way to the washer, I trip over six toys, which I gather on the way and call the kids to put away. Just as I get to the bottom of the stairs, the doorbell rings. It’s one of the neighbor kids asking if the girls can play. I say they’ll be ready to play in half an hour. Have a five-minute discussion with whining 7-year-old moppet about why she has to finish her schoolwork before she can go play.
Pass the bathroom on the way to the washer, knowing if I don’t run the washer first, I’ll forget about it again.
As I’m setting the washer, I realize I didn’t send my edits yet, which are due exactly now. Shoot. Pull washer button, head back to computer, and attach my edits. Click “Send.” Whew.
Remember that I really need to pee. Head toward bathroom. Almost to the Promised Land, I hear a sharp thunk upstairs, followed by a loud wail. Shoot. Go upstairs to find that BoyWonder hit his head on the edge of the door. He’s hurt and tired and desperately wants to nurse. Okay. Take him to my room and nurse him on the bed. Really need to pee now.
Tell BoyWonder we’re done nursing when I count to five. Three, four, five . . . he reluctantly relents.
Bathroom is ten feet away.
The Muse comes in with my phone, which is ringing. Fat chance. Mama’s gotta go. Voicemail rules.
Pick up a pair of dirty socks on the way to the bathroom and toss them into the hamper. Notice overdue library book on nightstand. Shoot. Quickly grab it and set it at the top of the stairs where I’ll trip over it so I don’t forget about it again. Make a mental note to pick up that cool book about maps and globes a friend recommended while I’m at the library.
What was I doing again? Oh, right. Bathroom.
Start heading back to the bathroom when 7-yr-old comes up in a panic, a princess dress awkwardly pulled halfway over her head. Her hair’s stuck in the zipper and she can’t see anything. Search for stuck zipper through a sea of tangled hair. Try to gently loosen it, but it’s stuck good. Finally admit defeat and go get scissors. Cut off a small chunk of hair to free the poor girl.
Just as I shut the bathroom door, moppets start calling from downstairs.
“Mo-om, I’m hungry!”
“Then get a snack!”
“Can we have ice cream?”
“Eat whatever you want!”
“Mo-om, can I play Wii?”
“Do whatever you want!”
“Mo-om . . .”
“For the love of all that is good and holy, will you let a woman pee in peace!!!”
At least no one’s bleeding, vomiting, unconscious, running into the road, or playing with something sharp.
At least, I hope not.