We pack sippy cups of juice for both kids, a bag of goldfish crackers, one of those applesauce squeeze thingies for Maeve (in an attempt to diversify her diet of chicken nuggets), a couple of lollipops for coercion purposes, and Max's stretchy lizard friend (so he can torture it instead of Maeve).
All of this gear gets thrown into my purse, which has taken the place of the diaper bag because it got thrown away after being overtaken by fuzzy black mold. Undoubtedly, this fungal outbreak precipitated from ignored apple juice spills and half-eaten nutrigrain bars and long forgotten Oreos. My purse has become the mecca for unusually grouped objects. At any given time, you can find money, tampons, sequined hair bows, snack foods, chewing gum, leaves/dirt, a water bottle, a calendar, pens, markers, broken crayons, matchbox cars, Motrin, a stethoscope, a can of diet Coke, lipstick, my phone, Maeve's toy phone, a diaper, underwear (for Max), bandaids, pacifiers, wipes, Kleenex, and usually about 7 hair ties. I probably have enough supplies to feed and entertain a dozen toddlers stranded in the Peruvian mountains for a week. And enough lollipops to convince them all to come down.
Getting the four of us clothed, fed, and out the door takes a surprisingly long time. First we have to sit on top of one child to brush her teeth, get her dressed, fix her hair, and put on her socks and shoes. Then we have to do the same thing with the next child. Usually while tending to one child, the other one draws on himself with indelible markers.
Robert and I usually get our clothes from the meticulously arranged dresser as seen below.
They are so conveniently warm and wrinkle-free if Robert remembers to hit the quick dry button. Even though, I'm pretty sure my go to wardrobe of yoga pants are wrinkle resistant.
By the time we get both kids into the car seats, we are all irritable and unpleasant. Particularly me. I usually inquire and complain about a variety of things, including but not limited to why it takes us two hours to get organized and out of the house, when and where did Max last go potty, how many bites did Maeve eat of her scrambled eggs, and why Robert doesn't help to put me in a better mood.
As if by act of divine intervention, there happens to be a Starbucks within minutes of my house. I am thankful for the heavenly combination of sugar and caffeine. Robert is thankful that I have to shut up in order to drink it.
By the time we get to our destination, I feel like it should already be nap time. But in an effort not to be perpetually gloomy and negative, I psych the kids up for an exciting adventure at the park. Instead of heading for all of the other families frolicking on the playground, we gravitate towards a trail into the woods. Robert and I have the philosophy that if you encourage your kids to run nonstop during the day, they will go to bed earlier and sleep through the night. We continue to aspire to this philosophy even though we have found it to be largely untrue. We end up staying out too late, missing the sacred window of nap time, and facing the wrath of overtired and cranky children. And then we try again tomorrow. I think this might be the definition of insanity.
Everything starts off fine. The birds are chirping. The sun is shining. No one has any boo boos. Then I think I see a creek off the beaten path. I encourage everyone to step off the nicely groomed trail so that we can walk on uneven terrain and throw rocks into a glorified drainage ditch. This decision might seem a bit foolhardy when you also take into consideration that I severely sprained my ankle 12 days ago.
Fairly soon into our trailblazing adventure, we encounter a small embankment. I pick up Maeve to help her onto surer footing when I start to lose my own. Unable to catch myself because of my weakened ankle, I slip and ungracefully roll down the hill. Instead of reaching out to catch me, Robert just stands there and laughs. Max is horrified. He points at me and says, "Mommy's falling down a mountain!"
Luckily, I am uninjured.
After recuperating myself and yelling at Robert for his insensitivity, we make our way to the creek. It's actually quite a nice creek and the kids periodically enjoy tossing rocks into the water. But the moment passes almost as quickly as it had begun. We are a fair distance from the van at this point. The kids are hungry, and wouldn't you know I left my purse in the van.
So we trudge back to the path. I am busy tending to Maeve when I hear Max shriek out. Immediately I assume the worst. I imagine that he's been bitten by a cottonmouth. I rush to his aid only to discover that he has procured a splinter. It is not nearly as bad as it sounds.
Finally we can see the light of civilization. I'm carrying Maeve. Max wants to walk. He's clutching his hand as if he's afraid the wind might dislodge the splinter and cause massive, fatal bleeding. Anxious to get to the van, Robert lifts him up to his shoulders. And then shit really hits the fan. Or more specifically, dog shit all over Robert's jacket, shoulders, and hair. I guess Max had stepped in a pile of doo doo.
And now is when I get to laugh my ass off.
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