So. Halloween week. Never before has it been so busy–that whole having a million kids thing I mentioned the other day? I take it back. A million kids means a million activities. Coincidentally, so does having just three kids–a million activities, a million field trips, a million baked goods for a million carnivals, etc. etc. etc. You get my point. Surely I’m not the first woman to have accidentally volunteered to bake and craft and coordinate at different events on the same day, right? A better woman could probably find a way to make it fly. Me? My twelve year old runs behind me all day closing doors I leave wide open, shutting off the water that’s about to overflow the sink, and just generally making sure I don’t set the house on fire.
Yesterday after a girly-doctor’s appointment, an hour of phone calls from the PTA, a worry-filled bill-paying session, and a trip to the library and grocery store with a pink-eyed Mia and an ever-snotty Merrick, I cracked a little.
"You want baked goods? I’m having trouble believing I signed up for that. Can’t I just unwrap a bunch of pre-made Rice Krispy Treats? Wait–do I even have to unwrap them? Can I just give you cash instead?"
"Mia I swear if you rub your eye again, it’s going to fall out. And don’t go near your brother!"
"For Pete’s sakes, Merrick, it’s just mashed carrots! Eat them! Eat! Man up, will you?"
Yes. I told my six-month old to man up.
And the worst thing about the whole day was that we didn’t even wave to the Wal-Mart man. Just straight up dissed him and his stickers and his harmonica. I think we broke his heart. The guilt kept me up last night.
I think I’ve got a handle on today. Mia’s already informed me that she’s okay with going to the doctor. (Says she: "I’m into the doctor. So into it. I’m ready to let him check out my eye.") Merrick…doesn’t care what we do. I’m going to spray paint boxes, make some brains and eyes, brush up on my face-painting skillz, carve a pumpkin…
I might even think about baking those Rice Krispy Treats. And if I do, I’m bringing some to the Wal-Mart man.