Rainy Day, Inside and Out

What a gray day.

Sleep-deprived from the instant I heard the alarm. (Derek Webb's "Mockingbird" is a lot less lovely at 6:30 a.m.)

Kevin wasn't feeling well. The rain was steady and the clouds blocked the sun from showing even a hint of itself.

I should have stayed in bed.

Or at least stayed home.

But the fridge was empty. And had been for two days. No, I don't just mean that we were out of milk - which we were. I mean - we needed groceries. As in, I saw Riley packing her lunch last night and she was cutting open some old MREs from my brother the Marine and she was stashing odd combinations into her lunch bag. (I fear for her health.) I think for breakfast she ate her own fingertips, but I'm not sure about that.

I fed Wilder and put him back down for his morning nap (all the while being uncontrollably jealous of the life of an eight month old). He and Kevin could stay home together. And then I gathered the other four and added shoes or hats or jackets where they were lacking. We sloshed through the wet, slushy snow remains through the pelting rain. I strongly dislike (hate is such a heavy word) loading kids into the Suburban when it's raining. They have to climb over one another and multiple car seats to reach the back row, which means that several kids end up with wet and/or muddy bums from their siblings' feet.

The Suburban was making most concerning sounds and as I sloshed out of the driveway I was pretty sure that it was not shifting properly. I called Kevin, you know - like two minutes after I had just left him.

"Uh. The Suburban isn't shifting properly," I said. (That was my professional opinion.)

"Is it still in four wheel drive?" he calmly inquired.

I looked down. Yes. "Yes, it is."

I had to make a stop at our bank so I decided to include Whole Foods in my plans, if I was already driving that far.

At the bank I waited for the check to be deposited and the cashier asked me for my debit card. And as I reached for my red bag, my stomach sank a bit. Suddenly I was pretty positive that my wallet was in my green bag. Oh Stink.

No debit card. No ID.

I quickly asked for cash so I could still redeem this trip and go to the grocery store anyway.

The cashier politely refused to give me any cash without my ID.

Plan B, I figure. I'll just write a check at the store. But wait - who will accept a check without an ID? Oh yeah - no one.

Okay. Okay. I'll just run by the ATM and get cash to buy the groceries. Guess what you need to get your cash? A debit card. Of course. What in the world was I thinking?

And so I did what I do sometimes.

I cried.

Sitting in the suburban. In the rain. In the bank parking lot. I cried.

Because sometimes I cry over seemingly unimportant things. Like spilled milk. And Magnus eating my pizza dough. And forgotten wallets.

And then I turned around and drove all the way back home. Through the rain. Windshield wipers flip flapping.

I unpacked the kids. Sloshed back into the house. Told Kevin my sad story. Received sympathy. We fed kids some half peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the heels. (If you turn the heel inside, the kids never know it's the end. Shhh. That's just between us, okay?)

After lunch I put Piper and Fox down for naps and London and Mosely stayed home for their math tutoring with Laura (a bright spot in their day twice a week) and Bergen and I headed back to the wet Suburban - wallet in hand.

By the time we finally arrived back home it was past time to eat and Kevin was heading out the door to his art class (like two ships passing in the night). I strongly dislike (hate is such a heavy word) that moment when you arrive home from a store, crushed under the weight of your plastic bags (or reusable ones, that's what I meant), to realize that you have nothing in mind for dinner.

Really. This day seems mostly a drag. (In fact, I apologize to you for recording it all. What was I thinking?)

Maybe TV can redeem it. I have high hopes for you Lost, high hopes.

Last Night

It was late.

As in, kids all tucked in, kitchen cleared, computers powered down, sitting on the sofa kind of late.

I was writing a letter to my friend (sorry Sara - I may never get to finish that epistle at this rate) and Kevin was watching (with his eyes closed) some M. Night ShimmyWhoWho movie on television.

And that's when we heard the cry.

"Mommyyyyyyyyyyy." (Hmmm. Now they call my name. Interesting.)

We discovered Mosely in the bathroom, over the toilet, taking care of her little sick self.

We wondered if Mosely had managed to make it to the bathroom before the sickness began. But evidence to the contrary was all over her face. And arms. And shirt. And hair. And, upon further investigation . . . the blankets, the wall, the floor. Oh and yes, the bed she was sharing with Bergen and London.

And so our night began in earnest. At about 1 a.m.

We shifted sleeping, non-sick children to alternate locations. We divided and conquered. Kevin cleaned up the bedroom, I cleaned up the six year old. And mid-process we heard a familiar sound. Behind the closed door of one little Willow.

Sure enough. Sick kid number two. And there was no time for a trip to the bathroom. It was already too late before we even opened the door.

And so we started the process over again. Stripped sheets. Piled up pillows, eagle and anything else unfortunate enough to happen to be in Piper's path.

The night was long. Two baths after 1 a.m. Two beds stripped of sheets. Two beds remade. Two buckets located for any more incidents. Two girls outfitted in new cozy pajamas.

Somewhere along the way, Piper sat up and said, "I am having fun with Mosely in my bedroom." Some fun, Sweet Little Munch. But I like that attitude.

We had at least three more incidents throughout the late evening - maybe more. I might have lost count.

But the day did dawn brighter, no one has been ill all day.

And on the positive side, for the first time in maybe a year or more - every Keigley kid took a nap this afternoon - even London Eli.

So there's your silver lining, I guess.

This Is Not Good

Look what happens
when I answer the phone
and have the audacity
to walk into another room
to finish my conversation.

This Circus

Tell me the truth, am I the only one who feels like life with small children is more often a circus than anything else?

Do these things happen only at our house?

At your house do reusable silicone muffin wrappers fall out of your washing machine when you open the door?

Do you walk into the kitchen to discover your toddler surrounded by piles of cornmeal, of which she is shoving into her mouth? And when you ask her what she is eating does she reply, "powder"?

Do children sing Michael Jackson's "Will You Be There?" with your husband while dancing around the kitchen using antique wooden rolling pins as microphones?

Does your two-year-old daughter absolutely refuse to take any bath sitting down?

During dinner at your place does it appear that the dining room chairs are on fire or something else equally alarming, causing your four-year-old to continually hop out of his seat despite constant reminders to stay seated?

Does silverware steadily drop to the floor during every meal together?

Do you have to put a feature length film in the DVD player to ensure a few quiet moments to chat with your husband?

And finally, do you ever enter the bathroom at your house, only to discover a urine soaked floor and upon inquiring of your children who is guilty of causing such an unfortunate disaster you get this confession and explanation - "It was me Mommy. I couldn't help it. My penis was backwards."

Try This

I think I have just discovered a breakthrough diet plan.

Maybe even revolutionary.

It's low cost, convenient and it really works.

(I can prove its effectiveness. I am not a paid actor. This is a true story.)

First, you need a cup of something ridiculously hot.

Steaming, in fact.

Boiling couldn't even hurt.

(Something like, say, your own invention of a vanilla steamer made in your microwave.)

The next step is the most important step.

Place the cup in your hand. Do not blow on the cup's contents. Do not!

Raise the cup to your mouth

And drink a full sip.

(The bigger the gulp, the better.)

There.

Now you have severely burned your tongue.

This should alter your taste buds and subdue your desire to eat for at least a full day.

Perhaps even longer if you are lucky.

Nothing will taste great and everything will be semi-painful to chew, thus causing you to avoid meals you would otherwise rush to devour.

Diet plan enacted!

What Does This Mean?

Perhaps I have allowed our children's television viewing to get out of hand lately.

Bergen asked Mosely a question.

She responded . . . "For more information just log on to p - b - s - dot - org."

Ice, Ice . . . (I can't bring myself to finish this song lyric)

Maybe you can judge the state of my emotional health and well-being by the status of my ice box.

I like ice.

When we moved to our new home we purchased a lovely Samsung refrigeration unit that featured an ice maker.

Because I like ice.

But alas. Our home did not come equipped with a water connection to said ice maker.

I was sad.

Because I like ice.

I do not like ice cube trays. I don't like how they appear stackable but are in fact only stackable if the water is already frozen inside of them.

That doesn't make any sense.

I was forced to reach a compromise, however.

Because I like ice.

I bought one ice tray. Yes. Just one.

And one ice tray is really enough to keep an ice box full.

On days when I remember. On days when the house is tidy and the kids put away their toys after every play time. On days when the laundry is caught up and the meals are planned ahead of time. On days when no one spills milk or applesauce or juice or cheerios. On days when I don't have sixteen errands to run in two different states. On days when the dog doesn't pee on the floor and Piper doesn't empty the full box of baby wipes all over her bedroom.

On days where none of those things happen I have a system. I empty and refill the ice tray every time I fill my glass of water. Every time I walk to the sink. Before every meal. Before I go to bed at night. As soon as I wake up.

So if my ice box is overflowing with cubes, that is a pretty good sign that things are running smoothly at this house. Peace is nearly attainable. Calm is the norm. The situation is well at hand.

All that to say . . .

You should see my ice box right now.

The ice supply is rapidly depleting. (Laundry is piling up. Toys are scattered. Meals are haphazard.)

And it looks as if it will only get worse before it gets better.

Today I sat that one ice cube tray on the red hot eye of the stove.

(Only the smelly white remnants remain.)

Uh-oh.

At Our House

This morning I opened the refrigerator.

I found these.

Perfectly logical - right?

While You Were Sleeping

I was feeding Wilder in his bedroom.

I finished.

I walked to the kitchen and was greeted by a wild scene.

Two small children, one two, the other four, stood before me. Looking sheepish. And guilty. And white. Looking very white.

"What?" I started to say.

I quickly realized that the white that had settled on their entire beings, from toes to roots of hair to cheeks to the two stuffed animals carried in their arms, was from powder. I could see it everywhere. I could smell it.

Wait a minute.

While I was feeding Wilder weren't these two playing in our bedroom? With their father?

Or so I thought.

"Kevin!" I shout.

A noise that I assume is his response comes from the bedroom.

The bedroom that is covered in a cloud of white. A choking cloud of white powder. I see a floor covered in white. Thickly covered in white powder.

Oh, there's Kevin.

Lying on the bed.

Asleep.

Covered in white powder.