Mother's Day, My Ass

What a crock. It isn't even 9 a.m. yet and I already pissed off at the world. So much for the love and mush of the Hallmark or Kodak ads. I am ready to take an oozie to the television and beat my husband senseless.

So far today:

1. Sam, the baby woke up at 6 a.m. yelling. No cuddling, no cutsey, nothing. I slept in his room thinking that I could just snag him when he woke and steal some extra sleeptime. No such luck. He litterally howled when I tried to put him bed with me and began to scream"DADDY". I take him to the other bedroom where Daddy is sound asleep and put him on the bed. He goes nuts. Freaking ape shit nuts. "No, no, no, no, no!" Daddy doesn't even move. I get him off the bed ans try to take him to the sunroom--he revolts. Meltsdown would be more accurate, actually. Lays on the floor, kicks, screams and pounds. He is not even 2 yet--WTF is up with this? I have to pick him up, avoid the jaws of death he is directing my way and drag him, my pillows and sheet to the sunroom. (Yes, I thought I was going to be able to sleep a bit more--dumbass).

Once there, nothing will make him happy. He wants Daddy. Daddy is asleep and not moving. It's Mother's Day and let me just tell you, Daddy is a mother of epic proportions. Sam finally finds a book and an unsharpened pencil and begins to entertain himself. I am able to wach Changing Rooms which makes me happy. It is short lived. Sam has diarrhea. The last thing I want to fool with. He doesn't want me to change his dipe--we go 10 rounds while I get the funk that is dried off his butt cheeks. He is yelling at me the whole time--"no, no, no, no." My thoughts exactly, hon. A diaper wipe calms him down--surely those things are non-toxic, aren't they

2. At 7, Jay the 3 year old, woke up and greeted us over the baby gate. I would have sworn he would sleep til at least 9 since he was up til almost 11. I was wrong. He is also on the brink of a cataclysmic asthma attack, so add that to my mix of fun. They fight back and forth for about 20 minutes before I go the bedroom and try to roust Daddy.

"What are the plans for today?"
"Mhhmmhhmm"
"I just thought I would see if you had anything special in mind--the kids are hungry."
"adaiehfandndna."
"What?"

Silence

"I thought maybe you and the kids would cook me breakfast--I forgot who I was dealing with."

Why I thought I would even want him to cook is beyond me. This is the man who makes gravy with ground beef **gag, shudder** and puts it on biscuits. The kids won't even even touch it. *blech*

Looks like mini-pancakes nuked for the dolls. What a great mother I am. Sam is bellowing "food, food, food" at the top of his little 20 month lungs. I actually debate giving him a frozen one just to hush him, but I decide that at this point 60 more seconds won't kill any of us. Finding clean sippy cups is too daunting, so I just grab two off the floor and wash them by hand.

They eat for about 30 seconds and then the fighting begins. They want each other's milk, each other's food, my lap, it never ends. I talk to MIL at some point in this fracas and tell her no one is going to church.

In the next hour or so, Sam bites Jay 3 times, Jay hits Sam several times, I threaten to remove a bike, a car and the TV. I remove phones, cups, and toilet paper. Sam looses his pencil, Jay wants me to read 100 books or so, Sam puts on every shoe he can find, Sam freezes my computer by smacking a bunch of keys at once and Jay has to go potty twice.

Then Five wakes up.

3. Daddy took Five to a cookout last night. They didn't get home until around 1. Five should not be up at 8:00, but he is. He complains of a tummy ache--I figure he is looking for way out of church and disregard it. He tells me about the night before which involved someone telling him to tell his Daddy to take his ass home. I make a mental note to kick Daddy's ass.

All is finally calm--Five asks if he can get a drink of water. No problem. I am blissfully playing Snood while Toon Disney and Legos entertain the other two when I hear what sounds like water spilling on the wooded floor. No huge cause for alarm--I keep shooting, then glance over my shoulder. It isn't water--it is puke. Five has never in his life puked on the floor. At 18 months he ran to the bathroom and puked in the tub. Now, at105 months old (8 years, 9 months :-) there he stood hurling all over the floor while Jay and Sam watched in total awe. I told him to go to the bathroom--he finished the present wave of puke and began to run. I am so stupid. Instead of one giant puddle of puke, I ended up with a giant puddle and three smaller rivers of puke as he made his way to the bathroom which was about 15 feet away. I learned something on Mother's Day-- never tell a puking child to go somewhere. He gets there and says, "I'm done now." Great. Jay is now ina tizzy because Five puked on his spiral notebook and a Mr. Frumble book. The notebook is trashed, the book is salvagable. Fortunately I am a slo, so there was a towel left over from the previous night's bath (or could have been two or three nights ago--who knows) I get it cleaned up pretty easily, considering. The odor of hot dogs,l however, hangs in the air. It is too humid outside to open the windows, plus that would set off asthma boy, so I turn up the AC and move on.

So, here I sit watching my youngest children play with their favortie thing--diaper wipes while I try to refocus and figure out how we are going to salvage the day with a puker, a wheezer and a pooper. Lest I make it seem too horrid--I have also been kissed and hugged repeatedly; Sam has sung his own redition of the ABC's (complete with leminohpea) and Old McDonald to me; Jay came up to me a minute a go and said "Mama, What a woman!!" and I have some beautiful kid-made gifts to cheer me up--later. Now I just want a stiff drink and a quiet, dark room.