A Cautionary Tale

A day like today doesn't happen too often, but when it does, I really begin to commiserate with Job (Old Testament "Job", not Arrested Development "Gob"). The days when we really need a little extra R&R, or smooth sailing, is nearly always the day we get our test in patience... and nearly always the day The Daddy is working late... Why is that??? (I throw my hands outstretched to the universe here.) Who prayed for patience? 'Cause I'm certainly not that dumb... Okay, maybe I'm that dumb. Either way, I had to exercise great personal restraint several times today. And failed miserably several times.

I was having one of "those days." Hylton began the day by playing in the toilet again. Despite my best efforts to keep the door closed, the kids invariably leave it open so I get to fish things out and clean potty water off the floor and all other nearby bathroom surfaces and then disinfect. So, to rebel against this day, I sat in my pajamas until 4pm. Yes, four o'clock P.M.... That's when I decided I should start dinner. Unfortunately, I didn't get the memo about soccer starting today, so when my friend called and mentioned it, we flew into high gear. Dinner prep hurriedly put away, showered, makeup, hair, clothes, kids clothes, kids soccer socks/shoes, folding chair, umbrella, purse, keys. Keys? Keys? ARGH! Frantic searching for the missing keys ensues. Under pillows, blankets, couches, in toy boxes and garbage cans... Eventually it occurs to me that I let Hylton unlock the front door yesterday and he likes to carry the keys in and hang them up, but I had my hands full and now I don't know where he put them. (This being Hylton and all, I check the garbages again.) Then I say, "Hylton, (dearest) where did you put Mommy's keys?"
"Keys," he says and toddles around behind me with his Crusoe in hand, occasionally repeating the offending monosyllable while I continue searching. No help whatsoever.

Doug is on his way home but won't be home for another 45 minutes. Much too late to get us to soccer on time. We have no spare key. Seriously. I finally spy the keys through the car window on Sterling's seat. About this time, I hear a wail from the backyard where the kids have been looking for the keys in the corn patch since this is where Hylton likes to hide sometimes. I come around the house corner to find Hylton sitting in a pile of mud 6" deep. His shoe (church shoe, mind you) is suctioned in place, his stockinged foot covered in mud as well as Crusoe and his clean, new clothes. Strip him down, clean him up, start on dinner yet again.

Finally Doug arrives home and wonders if I let the kids move the downspout because there is a huge section of mud there. (&*%$@!) 'No, dearest," (through gritted teeth now). The avid Church Family blog follower may recall that said hubby removed said gutter drain to replace it and, alas!, it has not been reinstalled. When the forecast predicted impending moisture, aforementioned hubby "rigged" up a temporary solution. I wish I had a picture, I may have to post one later. Needless to say, the "fix" created a large and lovely section of glorious, gloppy, squishy, tricksy mud.

Anyway, back to gritted teeth; he wonders also if I mind that the kids are using our brooms to sweep the mud. Right on cue, Evie enters my line of sight from the kitchen window covered in mud, holding a very muddy broom. Sterling is in a similar state of dishevelment. I feel I just cannot cope with this new state of affairs while I am boiling noodles and frying chicken in hot oil. So they remain outside, cold, and covered in mud while I finish dinner. When dinner is ready I open the door and ask Sterling if he thinks that what they've done is okay. He replies, "But I just forgot to not play in the mud, Mamma..." Somewhere, long, long ago, he must have gotten out of trouble by saying he "forgot" to do something, or "it was an accident" because these are his two standard excuses. They don't work anymore. Haven't for some time. I am still so far from coping that I give them their dinner outside and a bowl of water to wash their hands in. I sit down to eat for a peaceful dinner, though somewhat marred by the incessant door tapping and whimpering and pleading looks from the dirty children. Doug has just enough time to scarf dinner and leave for a meeting.

After cleaning up the greasy mess that dinner made, I go outside and turn the hose on to clean the caked-on mud from their clothes and shoes and, finally, from them, which Evie endured quite well and Sterling not at all. Amid crying (from the eldest, mind you), I send them inside to get into the tub while I finish cleaning up the clothes outside. Evie is not even inside the door when she screeches that Hylton (who has been left inside alone for 3 minutes) is spraying her. I tell her to take the water bottle away (which is the usual culprit) when she comes out with the Wet Swiffer in her hand saying, "No Mom, Hlyti was spraying me with this and made a big mess in the kitchen." In the kitchen, I found puddles, upon puddles of Swiffer Wetjet cleaner. Half a bottle's worth, in fact. And Doug's golf umbrella sitting in one of the puddles.

That is when I decided that I was done with this day and washed the kids and promptly put them to bed.

The End.

Moral of the story: Don't pray for patience. It's overrated.

PS. I should mention that, despite the messy prep, dinner was by far the highlight of my day. Thai Chicken and Noodle Salad. So good... Check it out.