Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Yesterday was one for the books.

I dropped my son off at daycare without incident. At this point, I should have returned home, crawled under the covers, and pretended not to realize it wasn’t a three-day weekend. Memorial Day is in May? Shit! I knew it was an M-month.

I drove approximately two feet towards work before noticing an angry red light on my console strongly suggesting I check my gage. I did so, only to discover my engine temperature was rocketing up towards a little picture of a volcano erupting. Crap. I’m no mechanic, but I believe that’s hot.

I pulled over to the side of the road, cursing my procrastinating ways and that for-emergency-use-only cell phone I’d been mulling over. The one I hadn’t gotten around to purchasing yet. You know the one.

I turned around and headed back home, pulling over every thirty seconds or so to let the molten lava indicator cool down. Several hours later, I arrived home. Nathaniel, beautiful fantastic hunk of a man that he is, flew to my rescue and replaced the engine thermostat, ecstatic that in my woman-driver ignorance I had not gunned a smoking hot engine, blowing it to smithereens. I had somehow overcome the conundrum of being both a woman and a driver and made him proud. I try.

Since the day was only half-wasted, I got back on the road (I just don’t learn, do I?!) and headed to work.

Shortly after arriving at the office, and only just after having explained for the trillionth time what had waylaid me, my phone rings. And…get this…I answer it! No! No I won’t ever learn! EVAAHHH! Mu-ahahahaha!

It was, of course, daycare. My son had…the runs (thanks, Grandma, your pc terms are still useful in polite society) and was…this part kills me…CRYING, they said. He just keeps crying, they said. Have you MET my son, I wanted to scream?! My cry-baby whiner of a pitiful mess? He cries! This is what he does! If he were NOT crying, I would be alarmed. For the squirts, however, and only for the squirts, shall I retrieve him.

Ever so grateful to have gotten an entire HOUR out of the day’s parking cost, I said good-bye to downtown and began my forty-five minute commute. Again.

My younger son seemed to be fine, other than his painful trips to the restroom. Poor thing. Once done, though, he would return to his usual not-listening, defiant self, so it couldn’t have been too serious. The daycare fare, perhaps? SLOPPY JOES for lunch, you say?? Hmmm.

After having picked up my older son from kindergarten, where he was told he couldn’t hand out the birthday party invitations we had painstakingly prepared for his two best friends if he didn’t have one for everyone (NINETEEN KIDS! I think not), we wrapped up the day with nary another blog-worthy incident.

Cut to the crack of dawn this morning, and Spence, my older son, throwing open our bedroom door to announce HE FEELS LIKE THROWING UP and crying his eyes out. Spence does not cry, as Jude does, so I was ready to pronounce it serious as hell, until my dear ailing boys began to fight tooth and nail over what movie to watch while they rested.

Spence, hands braced against the toilet tank, bent at the waist and staring at the water…”You know what REALLY makes me want to throw up?”

Stupid Me: “What, honey, what?”

Spence, with all the venom he could muster: “Blue’s Clues.”