Yes, it's 5 am. Why? Because I'm a busy mother and this is seriously the only way I can find time to write. It's funny how priorities slither into our lives. Maybe it's God's way of showing us what are true passions are.
I had a pretty wild night last night. I cooked dinner for the kids, and it turned out to be harder than milking a cow in heat. As I threw some chicken thighs and potatoes in the oven, my baby sat at the table. I don't know where she got them, but she seemed to have a limitless supply of gushy carrots which she continued chucking everywhere. I took the things away, but then every time I turned, another carrot would fly across the kitchen.
Then my little boy started collecting the carrots. I wanted to round him up fast because I knew he'd go straight for the vent. Except he didn't go for the vent, instead he stuffed the things in his nerf gun. Why is it that boys (even at two-years-old) are soooo different from girls?
With that lovely background set, I wasn't a happy camper--even though I wished I was. I washed my greasy-chicken hands, smoothed back my hair and breathed, "I can do this, yes I can." But what I really thought was that I wish my husband was home so I could get a mocha--since my life-line of a coffee maker broke.
After opening my eyes, I looked at my oldest kid, a third grader. She had a sweet grin on her face. "Look, Mama. I'm learning cursive."
I grabbed her paper and yes indeed, she'd written in cursive--everything I'd said for the past hour. Note to self: watch what I say around that kid, it's permanent just like OJ's words at his trial.
The baby hit me with a carrot, and I heard something large drop into the vent; that didn't completely fluster me though, I'd figured it was the nerf gun and we'd been there before. But that was when my second oldest--my hippe girl--started freaking out about her girl scout cookie order form. She is the most care-free kid in the world, a la-di-da sort. So when she flips out over something, it's shocking and HUGE.
I understood though. She's been working on cookie orders for a couple weeks. They can pay for her camp this summer if she sells enough. The problem was that someone spilled A BUNCH of water all over the order form. I felt bad, but didn't think she needed to freak out, while the noodles were boiling over, and the vents were open, AND while I was still getting bombarded with carrots!
"Calm down, sweetie. I'll figure something out." I rolled my eyes as my other (scribe-like) daughter jotted down everything I'd said--again.
"But mom!" hippie-girl cried beyond consolation. "But, mom."
A carrot hit me and I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Jesus wants me to be a sunbeam," I sang something--ANYTHING.
"Mom, it's ruined."
"Fine." I snatched the paper and shoved it into the microwave. I hit the popcorn button; I knew it wouldn't be in there that long, but wanted to be sure the thing got really dry. She needed to take more orders after we finished eating dinner.
The timer beeped on the oven, a pleasantly annoying way to signify dinner was done. I heard something else fall into the vent. "What now?" I groaned and went to the edge of the room. My boy, my awesome boy who I cherish like chocolate, sat by the vent. He smiled, shoving credit cards down the hole of doom! I screamed, was that bad . . . that I actually screamed? My boy ran off.
I grabbed the cards and set them on top of the fan blades, since that's the only place he can't climb to.
The oven beeped, then the microwave beeped. I got into the kitchen and the three of my kids sat warming themselves around--THE FIRE IN THE MICROWAVE! It must have slipped their minds to say, "Hey, mom. The microwave's on fire!!! We're all going to die!!!"
"What the hell?" I yelled. My oldest picked up her vile pen and wrote as the other kids flooded to the edge of the kitchen. I pulled the cookie order form from the microwave and started smacking the thing with all my pent-up feels about cookies! The fire eventually went out, and I did feel better, until realizing the oven was still beeping.
Now this is where I could've poked a stranger in the eye. I put on an oven mitt, went to grab a potato (which rested next to the charred chicken), and guess what!--the stupid vegetable exploded all over me! I'd forgotten to poke that potato with a fork before putting it in.
It was scary when the potato exploded in my hand. It reminded my of when a Pillsbury roll can pops, but fifty times worse--like I was a new type of unabomber, the kind that doesn't even know they're evil!
I turned and ventured closer to my children. I must have looked like a masterpiece. I had potato and carrots ALL over my face. My hair was a mixture of dinner and frustration as well. I just stared at my kids. The oven mitt fell off my hand.
"I hate potatoes," I whispered.
"But we love you," the scribe and hippie both said in an effort to smooth me out. They hugged me, just as my boy turned on the fan and the credit cards flew off the blades. How in the hell does he always figure a way to get stuff!!!
"Do you guys think I'm a sucky mom?" I asked as a credit card slid across the tile near my foot.
"Nope," the scribe said. "I think you're a great mom and I was in the mood for mashed potatoes anyway."
Here's the only part of the potato that stayed in the oven: