I had my second breakdown of the week, and it was only Tuesday.
My four-year-old was crying and throwing a fit because the clothes I’d picked out for her weren’t jiving with her mood for the day. She wanted a dress (in the middle of winter, mind you), and I’d picked out an adorable pair of skinny jeans, a pink sweater, and boots. Rather than give in to my bartering like she usually does over clothes, she stood firm. It would be a dress or nothing she told me in the strongest preschool voice she could muster. I rolled my eyes and marched out to find my son to get him dressed. I walk into his room; clothes strewn everywhere. My little two-year-old also had his own fashion agenda, and it didn’t include getting dressed anytime soon.
We should’ve left the house ten minutes ago, I thought as his diaper came flying. I sigh and give in, yelling at my daughter to throw a dress on; I really didn’t care at this point. She claps in glee at her small victory, as I silently curse. I know this will only mean trouble tomorrow morning.
I wrestle my son down while he screams and writhes as I fight to put his diaper on. By the time I’d finally found a pair of sweatpants in the piles of clothes on the floor, it was too late to find a matching sweatshirt. I told myself that for one day…he didn’t have to match.
After about five minutes of full on screaming (and maybe a curse word or two), I had both kids buckled in their carseats, ready to head out. Tears were starting to form behind my eyes at the thought of being late, once again. It was snowing and there was no way I could speed.
Out of the backseat I hear a yelp. “Bubba pooped mommy! It stinks real bad.”
I sigh, put my keys back in my purse, and pick up my phone.
“Yes, hello Sandy. I just wanted to let you guys know I won’t be coming in today. Yes, yes, both kids are sick. Thank you, yes, we will get some rest. I hope to see you tomorrow.”