Ever Have One of Those Weeks?

Have you ever had one of those weeks? Maybe a little like this?

Monday: You need to go pick your child up at school during a tornado warning. Actually, it's the extended warning. You were going to let her wait it out because her little brother was scared, but once the extension was added you decided to go get her (the tornado was nowhere nearby) since they would not even be putting her on the bus until 5 pm and then she would have another 40 minutes or so before getting home. It is a torrential downpour and you are all soaked to the skin and stripping the moment you set foot in the house. (Hooray, more laundry! Not.)

Oh, yes, did I mention that it's your birthday? There's no dessert because you didn't make any. You ask your husband to clean up since you made dinner. He puts the left over food away but leaves the dirty dishes in the sink (which was really what you meant for him to do but weren't smart enough to specify in your request). You realize you need to be more precise next time.

Tuesday: Your kid swipes 3 Hot Wheels cars while you are shopping at Kroger -- and you don't realize it until it's time to check out. By then, of course, he has torn open the packages. So you buy them, force him to pay you back, and charge an extra dollar for emotional duress.

In grocery shopping-related news, you are annoyed that today was the last day that your Kroger will be doubling coupons. Boo!

You go home, put the groceries away, transfer laundry from washer to dryer, change your clothes (can't wear the grocery shopping ensemble for yardwork!), and ask your four-year-old to help you apply sunscreen to your back (because it's over 80 degrees already and you are now wearing a tank top). Then you pop in a Disney film and manage to get the lawnmower out of the shed, mow the entire lawn (just a hair shy of an acre), and then put the lawnmower back -- entirely on your own! (Take that, husband who said he didn't think you could do it.) You later realize you have probably been duped. He knows you hate being told what you can't do!

You go to bed kind of miffed because hubby has asked you to stop and buy ice cream after your evening meeting at church. You are kind of tired but oblige because he has a sore throat. (You're cool like that even though he didn't buy you ice cream on your birthday.)

Wednesday: The same child has a tantrum the following morning at Walmart because you won't buy him -- wait for it -- another Hot Wheels car. So he runs off screaming like a banshee and you chase after him through approximately 15 aisles of the store before he slows down and you can finally grab him by the collar of his shirt. And then you wonder if wearing the skinny jeans and cute ballet flats was really the best choice for shopping with a four-year-old boy, which is starting to seem like more of a competitive sport each day.

Later, you step into the garage as you are headed out side to play "hardball baseball" with your boy. (Clearly, he has energy to burn off.) The moment you set foot out the door, you slip backward, nearly falling. (Thankfully, you do not get hurt. The floor of the garage is concrete, after all!) On closer inspection, you realize that you have stepped in a pile of dog poo. IN the garage. And by the way, you were still wearing the cute ballet flats, which aside from not offering much in the way of traction, are now coated in a layer of smeared dog poo. You are wondering why you have a dog...

To top off the day, it is your night to work the dinner at church. After 2.5 hours of running like a made woman (there were not enough hands!), scarfing your own dinner, and eventually stealing a potty break, it is over. You go to retrieve your little dude from the nursery (where they eventually had someone to help out, which is good, 'cause he started out in the kitchen with you, which for obvious reasons was not good). At this point, he smiles at you angelically and asks, "Mommy, is there any food left?" Um, yeah, you just spent several minutes packing it all up. Also, you have officially lost "Mom of the Year" status. That is reserved for people who remember to feed their children.

In other news, this is the second day this week that you have had to wash the cover from one of the couch cushions -- because a certain child has peed on it. (Hooray, more laundry! Not.) You are convinced that if you could just get all of the people and animals in your household to do their business in the correct location, your life would suddenly seem so much easier.

Thursday: As soon as you get out of the shower, you discover that your son has wet the bed. Only he wasn't in his own bed -- he was in your bed. You don't have a plastic sheet on this bed, obviously, so that means that when you strip the bedding you find a puddle of urine on your mattress. You head down to the laundry room to start a wash load, nearly tripping over a pile of in front of the laundry room door. It turns out that your other child has also wet the bed. (Hooray, more laundry! Not.) Next, you sprinkle baking soda all over your mattress and cross your fingers that it will sop up the liquid and get rid of any odor. You remind yourself that it could be worse -- at least one child wet her own bed and not yours!

After you are in bed (which now has fresh sheets, at least), your husband informs you that he read online that your daughter's school is doing away with Spanish and art. He tries to make you feel better, saying, "She still has you for art." Obviously, this is not the same. She loves those special classes. You have trouble getting to sleep because you are upset -- not just for the kids to miss out on these classes, but also for the teachers who may be losing their jobs.

Friday: Your son just pooped his pants for the fourth time this week. (Hooray, more laundry! Not.) You wonder how much diarrhea is considered "normal" and debate whether or not to call the pediatrician's office. (It's always tricky to find the right balance between being that mom -- the one who calls too often for every little thing --and that mom -- the one who never takes things seriously enough.)

Well, you make a decision and call the doc's office. He isn't having diarrhea, the nurse tells you. He's constipated. Well, okay, that makes sense. Not really, but kinda sorta. Anyway, you hang up and are immediately informed by your son that he has pooped his pants. Again. So make that five times this week. (Hooray, more laundry! Not.)

A letter comes home in your daughter's Friday folder confirming that there will be no Spanish or art classes next year. They are, however, offering some sort of before or after school art club. You still don't see how that makes up for cutting the programs!

Later, your son tells you that he has forgotten to lift the toilet lid, and so he has peed all over the bathroom floor. Actually, compared to the other potty accidents you have dealt with this week, you really don't care. At least he was in the bathroom attempting to do what he was supposed to do.

At bedtime, you are faced with two tired and cranky children. It turned out that it was a bad idea to go out to dinner to belatedly celebrate your birthday. Also, that big chocolate chip cookie for dessert was a huge mistake. Don't they know that you're supposed to bake them all the way through? Ugh. Everyone had a tummy ache. Your husband informs you that you didn't need to eat your whole piece. Right. Like you considered not eating the chocolate to be an option.

Feeling worn out, you turn to your faithful blog for a nice venting session. (Here you feel the need to add a final note that this was meant to be tongue-in-cheek. You lead a very blessed life, and happen to think that you are funny, even if nobody else may agree. And, your husband is pretty great most of the time. You don't want people to think that you have no faith in him, but like every normal person you occasionally feel peeved at him -- this week more than normal!) That said, you pray that the weekend of double birthday parties goes much more smoothly than the rest of the week!