Let’s start at midnight shall we? I was awakened by a four year old beastly urine dispenser notifying me that he had peed the bed. Soaked it to be specific. Taking care of the midnight bedding change, the p.j switch, and the wiping down of the PLASTIC mattress (thank God right!?), I instructed the beast to further empty his bladder in the proper facilities and return to bed. Shortly after, I had to pee. I made my way to the porcelain bowl and prepared for sweet release, but it was not to be. I firmly and carelessly planted my butt cheeks onto my son’s bodily fluids which had been showered over the seat only minutes earlier causing an abrupt and uncontrollable slip and slide to the left. “Shit, I sat in pee.”
I had a feeling that it might be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
In the wee hours of the morning I was made aware of yet another accident. The beast had struck again, but this time he had managed to soil his stuffed animals and pillow upon draining the baby weasel.
I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
I awoke to all three children completely filled with snot. Bona fide phlegm factories accessorizing with death-bed “esque” smokers cough. I quickly realized that my oldest was running a fever and had hit the flu jackpot. She would have to stay home from school. NOOOOOOO!!
This was turning into a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Conveniently, a dreaded trip to the mall was necessary on this particular day. I was to attend a birthday dinner in the evening for my husband and had completely ripped the thigh open on my favorite pair of skinny jeans, giving obnoxious new meaning to the term “distressed look.” My sick child was to stay home while I rushed to the one particular store amongst the sea of retail where all of my skinny jeans needs are (usually) met. With my son in tow, I was prepared, or so I thought, with a fully charged cell phone battery for a quick hour of preschooler
distraction entertainment and I have no shame in admitting that popsicle bribery was in full effect. I confidently walked in, went straight to the nearest salesperson and asked for the exact brand and style of jeans that I regularly purchase. I was told that skinny jeans were no longer in season, so therefore they were not going to carry them until the fall. What?? No!
Damn! This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Swallowing my pride I attempted to peruse a few other brands of jeans and convinced myself to try on a pair. Just as I had completely disrobed in the miniature changing facility, my son bolted under the half- door-wall thing and began the army crawl through the fitting rooms. When will retail learn to make the dressing rooms actual fucking rooms with three walls and a door? Standing in my underwear, all I could do was call for him while frantically grasping at the jeans, desperately trying to pull them up over my rump.
Yep, this was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
At the second store,(yes a second store because obviously the jeans weren’t a good fit at store number 1) I lost my son, panicked, ran outside and found him playing russian roulette with the escalator in the wrong direction while strangers stood in horror asking “where is this boy’s mother?”
You bet it was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
While taking a shortcut through the biggest store of all in an attempt to get to the car faster, My son announced “I’m going to my hiding spot!” and …. with the speed of a gazelle and all the grace of a bull in a China cabinet, he disappeared into the fashion abyss. I spent what felt like an eternity yelling “WHERE ARE YOU? WE ARE NOT PLAYING HIDE AND GO SEEK!
It was certainly a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day.
Admitting failure at my mall attempt and arriving home, I was met with a weak voice coming from the living room couch saying “mom, I farted but poop came out so my underwear are on the washing machine for you.” Gee Thanks.
A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
*You would think that my appetite would have been lost due to the sharting situation I had been put into, but you would be sadly mistaken. I was running on empty and excited for food.
The burrito that I had been hiding in the fridge for a quick lunch had been all but demolished by a cruel culprit and my mid day meal had been sabotaged. Picking up child #2 from school, I was greeted with a “ mommy, my stomach hurts.” Crap! Time to find a sitter for the evening’s festivities. Who wants to watch sick kids? Who can I call last minute??
I’m moving to Mexico.
A phone call from the hubbs informed me that he was stuck in traffic and would be running late for his own birthday celebration. I cut my knee while shaving, pierced my gums while turbo flossing, had to take a dump AFTER my shower which everyone knows is the worst! You always want to poo before you shower…for obvious reasons. The whole “fresh and clean” euphoria goes out the window when you drop a deuce immediately following a good scrubbing session. My skin was dry, my mascara was clumpy, I wanted to wear heels but my bunion was being a total asshole and…we were out of Qtips!
What a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Suggesting our friends enjoy a cocktail at the bar, I reiterated the name and amount of people. She stood staring at me doe eyed while I assured her that reservations were made two weeks ago for 15 people. I started to perspire. I was getting angry. All of the day’s shenanigans began to drag me over the edge and I was preparing to cut a bitch. Just as things were about to get ugly, said hostess realized that her calendar had been opened to the wrong day. Geezus.
It certainly had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
My husband says some days are like that. Luckily I was within arms reach of whiskey.
Next year we’re going to Mexico.