After a luxurious week of vacation,
a week of laughing with sisters, chatting over cups of tea,
and reading lots of good fiction,
a week of the kids disappearing for hours on end with cousins,
scrumptious breakfasts a la Erica, adventures with Mom and Dad,
and hours of absolutely beautiful unplanned Oregon sunshine,
we came home.
And boy, did we come home.
After a lot of internet searching for the perfectly priced hotel
with a free continental breakfast,
Scott and I came to the conclusion that we stayed on location
at the motel where they film My Name is Earl.
We were awakened frequently in the night
since the beds and Addison's pack'n'play were in such close proximity
that we could feel each other's heartbeats.
The promised free continental breakfast ended up
being a paltry offering of donuts and oranges so we opted for Starbucks.
Our lunch at McDonald's ended with Will, sliding down the slide,
and slammming his cheek into an elfin girl with an unbelievably hard skull.
As he sobbed hysterically, his under eye area began to swell dramatically,
taking on the color and shape of a ripe plum.
In the car ride to the hospital, Will began hyperventilating.
I tried to get him to blow into a plastic bag I found on the floor,
but as he was unwilling and I was nigh unto hysteria myself,
I used it myself, in between cuddles and calling out to Jesus.
Fearing a concussion, we waited in the emergency room for two hours,
and then paid $100 for a 4 minute consultation, a dose of motrin
and the announcement that Will had a really bad black eye.
By the time we got to the house, we were all exhausted.
I plopped Will and Addie in the tub and turned for the shampoo,
only to hear Will say,
"Oh no, Mom, Addie pooped!"
I flipped around to find out this was terribly true.
I grabbed Addison. As the offending party headed Will's way,
I reached for him, dropped him, and he goes under, fully submerged.
I barely snatched Will out in the nick of time.
Scott took the boys to the other bath to re-bathe them and
accidentally slammed Addison's fingers in the sliding glass door.
While I am ajaxing the defiled tub,I hear Addie's cries,
go to turn off the faucet and wrench my wrist...
And the evening is capped off nicely when my friend, Paula,
stops by to pick up a car seat.
As I am telling her of the disastrous happenings of the day,
a neighbor, whom I have never seen before,
happens by and motions to me holding Addie.
She has a bit of an accent
and I think she is asking me how many children I have.
"Yes, I have three little ones," I call out as she saunters by.
But no, she is not asking me how many children I have,
she is asking me if I am expecting again!
Right now at this very moment!
As this horrific realization dawns on me I ask Paula,
"Do I look pregnant?"
Which she very nicely reassures me I do not.
Because, for goodness sakes,
if after all the unkind and ungodly things that have happened
in the last 24 hours are to be topped off by my looking pregnant,
when I am so very not pregnant,
(and I often weep at the mere thought of being pregant again)
than I say,
"Jesus, take me now" and let's be done with it.
And so, in short....
Too good to be true!
Not so much.