Murphy's Law
It's been a Murphy's Law kind of day. Quite literally, everything that could go wrong,
did go wrong. I should've recognized the day for what it was early on when I awoke with a twitch above my eye and a pounding headache. That should have tipped me off. Maybe it's my eternally optimistic outlook that kept me holding out hope that the day was still salvagable (giggling with sarcastic derision over here).
Senor Cranky-Pants began his pitiful whimpers early this morning. Although fine while I was holding him or giving him my undivided attention, the little bugger felt it best to use his independent time devoted to the fine art of screeching. He did this all morning, all afternoon, and all evening... that is, until my husband came home. Then the mischievous diaper-wearer put on his sweetest face and cutest grin to lure Daddy in, making him think that Mommy had made it all up. And that's fine.... just fine. I'll give him peas for dinner. That'll show him.
For those of you that follow me on Facebook, you got the gist of my day (again, I apologize for my rantings). But for the rest of you, allow me to elaborate. It was a day of errands. My son is having a sleep-over on Friday.... that means I will have starving 8-10 year-old-boys running around my house, scavenging for chips and pop and birthday cake.... birthday cake that is John Deere themed.... that I have to figure out how to make in my non-pinterest fashion. Therefore, I needed supplies and lots of them! I was also in desperate need of an oil change (or so the screen on my van kept screaming at me each time I put the vehicle into park), and I have been using old make-up that was giving me an orange glow (foretelling of the afternoon's hair drama, to be sure) so I wanted to make a quick stop at Rite Aid to get new foundation. Easy peasy.
Because I am sleep-deprived and utterly brainless, naturally, I locked my keys in the van during our very first stop. The sweet elderly woman watched patiently as I went through the phases of panic and realization while I stood in line at the cash register, ripping my purse apart in search of the missing keys. In the meantime, my baby sat on the rug in front of me, trying to shop-lift every candy bar in arm's reach. I put his lootings back and we sprinted to the van. Sure enough, there were my keys, sitting neatly in my cup holder. I had obviously taken the time to remove them from the ignition and then must have decided that they were too heavy? Too jingly? Too bulky? Why I placed them in the cup holder, I will never know. But there they sat.
I snuggled my little one against the cold as we made our way back into Rite Aid to formulate a plan. Thankfully, my father-in-law was able to save us by bringing me Pat's spare keys from our home. That left us stranded for less than an hour and without having to pay a hefty locksmith's fee. So, we took the opportunity to browse the over-priced shelves of the store (and spend more money than we'd intended). Luckily, we ran into one of my old clients. Not only was I able to expose my small child to the poor man's halitosis, he was also given the opportunity to be fondled by tobacco-stained hands. Wyatt didn't seem to mind, though. (I think he was just excited to see someone with even fewer teeth than himself.)
It was after this rather germy encounter that I decided a bathroom break was in order. I pushed little Wyatt in the cart to the restroom, only to find that the cart wouldn't fit through the doorway. Hmmmm. I assessed the Ladie's room and found no baby seat, nor was there a changing table to strap him to. Crap. (Literally, there was crap on the floor.) The only thing left to do was to hold him while I peed. Shoving my scarf, purse, and purchases into basin of the pedestal sink, I proceeded to single-handedly line the toilet with paper and undo my pants. Feeling proud of my accomplishments thus far, I did my deed and went to reach for the paper. It then hit me that the rest of what needed to take place was darn near impossible with just one hand. Wyatt, deciding to take some time practicing another fine art known as smacking me in the face, made this balancing act all the more precarious. I wiped (sort of) and pulled up my pants (mostly). But the button proved to be too much for me. I was just gonna have to leave my pants undone until I got back to the shopping cart outside. I was also going to have to douse me and the little one with hand-sanitizer because I wasn't even about to drench us both with a hand-washing fiasco.
Luckily, there was another woman outside the door waiting to use the restroom, so my undone pants didn't have to go unnoticed.
My father-in-law arrived and the day was saved (except you and I both know that's not true of a Murphy's Law kind of day). Nevertheless, we were off to the dealership. Baby and I were nestled into a comfy waiting room chair, just getting engrossed in a rousing game of Candy Crush, a much-needed break from this hectic day. And that's when I heard the familiar grunts and smelled the familiar aroma. I looked at Wyatt and he looked at me. He grunted again. I felt suddenly warm.
Sweet Jesus. The diaper bag!
Obviously, I had left the bag in the van because who knew that my baby was going to explode in the 20 minutes it was going to take to change my oil?? I ran quickly through the garage, frantically looking for my van. Of course, it was the one up in the air on the lift. I explained the situation to the young kid backing away from my smelly baby and he more than readily agreed to fetch my bag for us. I hustled back to the service lounge and straight to the bathroom.... where there was no changing table to be found.
Seriously?!?
The warm, wetness was creeping up my little guy's back as he cooed happily, seeming to enjoy my frantic dilemma. As I barged back into the lounge, an employee asked if there was something he could do to help me. Was there? I don't even know.... did he have a shower or a washing machine, perhaps? No. But he did offer to clear out the employee lounge so that I could change Wyatt's diaper on their couch instead of on the dirty bathroom floor.
What a sweet man. Although, I fear he now regrets his offer, as Wyatt has recently found his penis. And, as all boys do, they can't resist the urge to give it a lil squeeze and tug each time it's exposed.... even if it's covered in green poo. I tried to grab his poop-glazed fingers, I really did. But I just couldn't get them in time. He had already finger-painted the back of the couch a lovely shade of olive.
Crap.
I changed his clothes, his diaper, and scrubbed the couch as best I could. All I kept thinking was that I was skipping the rest of the errands and going home. This baby needed his nap and this mama needed some alone time! And that's what we did.
Upon our arrival, I put a sleepy Wyatt into his crib. I needed to unwind and prepare for my job interview the next day. So, noticing my ever-graying temples, I decided that some much-needed primping was in order. I opened up my box of Warm Chocolate colored hair dye and began methodically applying it to my head. And that's just about the time that the screaming began. I carefully removed my stained gloves and clipped my hair back before retrieving Sir ScreamsALot from his crib, plunking him on the bathroom floor with some of his best friends (Alligator, Singing Dog, and Froggy). I reapplied my gloves and got back to the task at hand. That's when I noticed that Wyatt had made a few new friends... he had his hand and face in the potty chair, played with a dead ladybug, and full-on licked the base of the toilet all while I was trying to get those dang gloves back off.
For the love!!!!
Knowing that part of my hair had already had dye on it for at least ten minutes, I recognized the urgent need to quickly apply the dye to the rest of my hair before there was a serious problem! I flushed the bug and removed all movable toilets from Wyatt's reach before reapplying the now sticky gloves to my hands. I had lost track of where I was on my hair-dying journey so just started straight up dumping dye onto my head and massaging it all around, silently cursing the fact that Wyatt learned how to army crawl this week and was currently wriggling around between my feet and pulling himself up on my legs as he screeched.
I didn't mean to step on his fingers, but there was seriously no where to move and hair dye was dripping everywhere! My baby looked at me with large eyes before he took one huge breath and screamed with all his might. I had to blow in his face to get him to breathe while I removed those dang gloves yet again and scooped him up. I sang some songs, ticked some toes, and kissed some fingers. Finally, all was right with the world.
But only for the baby. Because in all the chaos, I realized that I had forgotten to look at the clock. How long had the dye been on my head? Shoot! I had no idea. We rushed back to the bathroom and I hurriedly shoved my head under the bathtub faucet. Wyatt chewed on my big toe and attempted to pull off my sock as I scrubbed my head clean and prayed that I didn't develop any chemical burns. Dripping and exhausted, I surveyed the damage. Hair dye had stained the counter and the sink. My shirt was basically ruined. Wyatt had ingested more foreign germs today than I ever thought possible. And my hair..... oh, my hair.
Even before I dried it, I just knew. Ten minutes later, my fears were confirmed. My scalp was orange... even more orange than my old make-up. But that wasn't the only problem. I had apparently missed an entire section of hair during baby commotion, because what I now have is an orange scalp, followed by very dark brown layers on the right side, light brown layers on the left side, and light brown tips all around the bottom. It's as if Helen Keller herself had done my hair.
I tried moving my part over to the other side, hoping no one would notice. Just then, the kids arrived home from school. Taylor took one look at me and said, "Hey, Mom? Why is your hair really light on that side and really dark black on the other side?"
If the 7-year-old notices it, surely the woman interviewing me tomorrow will, too.
But there was nothing to be done about it now, was there? The directions say that it is imperative to refrain from re-dying one's hair for 24-48 hours. I would just have to smile and wear a fancy hat tomorrow. Or hope that my interviewer is Ray Charles.
So, we did homework, ate dinner, and managed to all stay alive until the husband arrived home. Despite Wyatt's previous chucking of his juice and flinging of his food, he greeted his Daddy with an innocent smile. Husband, seeing my crazy hair and even crazier expression, took the kids away from the house for several hours to let me finish my errands in peace.
I put on my pajamas and then went to the store to get the rest of the birthday party supplies. Why, you may ask, did I put my pajamas on before going to the store? Because I have an orange head, that's why. I can't think of a better day to shop in my pajamas than a day when I have an orange head. Graciously, the kind people of Giant Eagle didn't seem to judge me for my appearance. They must have children, too, I decided.
And you know what else I decided? I decided that I needed to press my face against the cool glass of the bakery window, that's what. Each delectable item seemed to be begging me for a home, so how could I, as an adoptive mother, resist giving a lost creation a home? I just couldn't do it. So, I chose a beautiful little thing to be mine. Picture it.... creamy chocolate fudge, topped with chocolate mousse, topped with whipped cream, topped with shaved chocolate and a cherry, all sweetly tucked into a dark chocolate bowl that was shaped like a large, delicious egg. It was breathtaking. A little piece of Heaven to save me from this Hellish day.
The bakery boy knew it had been a Murphy's Law kind of day. That's why he gave me the spoon. He knew I wasn't going to be able to wait until I got home to eat my special treat. He knew I was going to run through the parking lot like a woman on speed and sit in my cold car in the dimness of the parking lot lights, eating my chocolate egg. And he was right.
I carefully removed the egg from it's to-go tub and savored the first bite. And Friends, I just can't even tell you how amazing it was. There are no words. It was the only way to end this day. The only thing that could possibly right all the wrongs that had happened. With each bite, I could feel myself giving in to the idea that orange is actually an awesome color. I could also feel the chocolate egg shell start melting on my hands......
I tried to savor less and shovel more, attempting to beat the melting-chocolate-clock. I don't know if I squeezed too hard in my attempts to switch hands, but my egg shell cracked. Shattered, is a better word for it. And the remainder of my gooey, creamy, fudgey goodness dumped all over the front of me.
It's not like I was surprised. I should've seen it coming, just like the eye-twitch from that morning warned. So, I did the only thing left to do.
I licked my shirt clean in the parking lot of Giant Eagle.
I could tell you about falling with my groceries in our mudslide of a driveway, and then dropping the bag with my eggs once I finally made it inside. But what's the point? I have an orange head, my baby licked a toilet, and I sucked on my shirt today. Really, what else could go wrong?
Senor Cranky-Pants began his pitiful whimpers early this morning. Although fine while I was holding him or giving him my undivided attention, the little bugger felt it best to use his independent time devoted to the fine art of screeching. He did this all morning, all afternoon, and all evening... that is, until my husband came home. Then the mischievous diaper-wearer put on his sweetest face and cutest grin to lure Daddy in, making him think that Mommy had made it all up. And that's fine.... just fine. I'll give him peas for dinner. That'll show him.
For those of you that follow me on Facebook, you got the gist of my day (again, I apologize for my rantings). But for the rest of you, allow me to elaborate. It was a day of errands. My son is having a sleep-over on Friday.... that means I will have starving 8-10 year-old-boys running around my house, scavenging for chips and pop and birthday cake.... birthday cake that is John Deere themed.... that I have to figure out how to make in my non-pinterest fashion. Therefore, I needed supplies and lots of them! I was also in desperate need of an oil change (or so the screen on my van kept screaming at me each time I put the vehicle into park), and I have been using old make-up that was giving me an orange glow (foretelling of the afternoon's hair drama, to be sure) so I wanted to make a quick stop at Rite Aid to get new foundation. Easy peasy.
Because I am sleep-deprived and utterly brainless, naturally, I locked my keys in the van during our very first stop. The sweet elderly woman watched patiently as I went through the phases of panic and realization while I stood in line at the cash register, ripping my purse apart in search of the missing keys. In the meantime, my baby sat on the rug in front of me, trying to shop-lift every candy bar in arm's reach. I put his lootings back and we sprinted to the van. Sure enough, there were my keys, sitting neatly in my cup holder. I had obviously taken the time to remove them from the ignition and then must have decided that they were too heavy? Too jingly? Too bulky? Why I placed them in the cup holder, I will never know. But there they sat.
I snuggled my little one against the cold as we made our way back into Rite Aid to formulate a plan. Thankfully, my father-in-law was able to save us by bringing me Pat's spare keys from our home. That left us stranded for less than an hour and without having to pay a hefty locksmith's fee. So, we took the opportunity to browse the over-priced shelves of the store (and spend more money than we'd intended). Luckily, we ran into one of my old clients. Not only was I able to expose my small child to the poor man's halitosis, he was also given the opportunity to be fondled by tobacco-stained hands. Wyatt didn't seem to mind, though. (I think he was just excited to see someone with even fewer teeth than himself.)
It was after this rather germy encounter that I decided a bathroom break was in order. I pushed little Wyatt in the cart to the restroom, only to find that the cart wouldn't fit through the doorway. Hmmmm. I assessed the Ladie's room and found no baby seat, nor was there a changing table to strap him to. Crap. (Literally, there was crap on the floor.) The only thing left to do was to hold him while I peed. Shoving my scarf, purse, and purchases into basin of the pedestal sink, I proceeded to single-handedly line the toilet with paper and undo my pants. Feeling proud of my accomplishments thus far, I did my deed and went to reach for the paper. It then hit me that the rest of what needed to take place was darn near impossible with just one hand. Wyatt, deciding to take some time practicing another fine art known as smacking me in the face, made this balancing act all the more precarious. I wiped (sort of) and pulled up my pants (mostly). But the button proved to be too much for me. I was just gonna have to leave my pants undone until I got back to the shopping cart outside. I was also going to have to douse me and the little one with hand-sanitizer because I wasn't even about to drench us both with a hand-washing fiasco.
Luckily, there was another woman outside the door waiting to use the restroom, so my undone pants didn't have to go unnoticed.
My father-in-law arrived and the day was saved (except you and I both know that's not true of a Murphy's Law kind of day). Nevertheless, we were off to the dealership. Baby and I were nestled into a comfy waiting room chair, just getting engrossed in a rousing game of Candy Crush, a much-needed break from this hectic day. And that's when I heard the familiar grunts and smelled the familiar aroma. I looked at Wyatt and he looked at me. He grunted again. I felt suddenly warm.
Sweet Jesus. The diaper bag!
Obviously, I had left the bag in the van because who knew that my baby was going to explode in the 20 minutes it was going to take to change my oil?? I ran quickly through the garage, frantically looking for my van. Of course, it was the one up in the air on the lift. I explained the situation to the young kid backing away from my smelly baby and he more than readily agreed to fetch my bag for us. I hustled back to the service lounge and straight to the bathroom.... where there was no changing table to be found.
Seriously?!?
The warm, wetness was creeping up my little guy's back as he cooed happily, seeming to enjoy my frantic dilemma. As I barged back into the lounge, an employee asked if there was something he could do to help me. Was there? I don't even know.... did he have a shower or a washing machine, perhaps? No. But he did offer to clear out the employee lounge so that I could change Wyatt's diaper on their couch instead of on the dirty bathroom floor.
What a sweet man. Although, I fear he now regrets his offer, as Wyatt has recently found his penis. And, as all boys do, they can't resist the urge to give it a lil squeeze and tug each time it's exposed.... even if it's covered in green poo. I tried to grab his poop-glazed fingers, I really did. But I just couldn't get them in time. He had already finger-painted the back of the couch a lovely shade of olive.
Crap.
I changed his clothes, his diaper, and scrubbed the couch as best I could. All I kept thinking was that I was skipping the rest of the errands and going home. This baby needed his nap and this mama needed some alone time! And that's what we did.
Upon our arrival, I put a sleepy Wyatt into his crib. I needed to unwind and prepare for my job interview the next day. So, noticing my ever-graying temples, I decided that some much-needed primping was in order. I opened up my box of Warm Chocolate colored hair dye and began methodically applying it to my head. And that's just about the time that the screaming began. I carefully removed my stained gloves and clipped my hair back before retrieving Sir ScreamsALot from his crib, plunking him on the bathroom floor with some of his best friends (Alligator, Singing Dog, and Froggy). I reapplied my gloves and got back to the task at hand. That's when I noticed that Wyatt had made a few new friends... he had his hand and face in the potty chair, played with a dead ladybug, and full-on licked the base of the toilet all while I was trying to get those dang gloves back off.
For the love!!!!
Knowing that part of my hair had already had dye on it for at least ten minutes, I recognized the urgent need to quickly apply the dye to the rest of my hair before there was a serious problem! I flushed the bug and removed all movable toilets from Wyatt's reach before reapplying the now sticky gloves to my hands. I had lost track of where I was on my hair-dying journey so just started straight up dumping dye onto my head and massaging it all around, silently cursing the fact that Wyatt learned how to army crawl this week and was currently wriggling around between my feet and pulling himself up on my legs as he screeched.
I didn't mean to step on his fingers, but there was seriously no where to move and hair dye was dripping everywhere! My baby looked at me with large eyes before he took one huge breath and screamed with all his might. I had to blow in his face to get him to breathe while I removed those dang gloves yet again and scooped him up. I sang some songs, ticked some toes, and kissed some fingers. Finally, all was right with the world.
But only for the baby. Because in all the chaos, I realized that I had forgotten to look at the clock. How long had the dye been on my head? Shoot! I had no idea. We rushed back to the bathroom and I hurriedly shoved my head under the bathtub faucet. Wyatt chewed on my big toe and attempted to pull off my sock as I scrubbed my head clean and prayed that I didn't develop any chemical burns. Dripping and exhausted, I surveyed the damage. Hair dye had stained the counter and the sink. My shirt was basically ruined. Wyatt had ingested more foreign germs today than I ever thought possible. And my hair..... oh, my hair.
Even before I dried it, I just knew. Ten minutes later, my fears were confirmed. My scalp was orange... even more orange than my old make-up. But that wasn't the only problem. I had apparently missed an entire section of hair during baby commotion, because what I now have is an orange scalp, followed by very dark brown layers on the right side, light brown layers on the left side, and light brown tips all around the bottom. It's as if Helen Keller herself had done my hair.
I tried moving my part over to the other side, hoping no one would notice. Just then, the kids arrived home from school. Taylor took one look at me and said, "Hey, Mom? Why is your hair really light on that side and really dark black on the other side?"
If the 7-year-old notices it, surely the woman interviewing me tomorrow will, too.
But there was nothing to be done about it now, was there? The directions say that it is imperative to refrain from re-dying one's hair for 24-48 hours. I would just have to smile and wear a fancy hat tomorrow. Or hope that my interviewer is Ray Charles.
So, we did homework, ate dinner, and managed to all stay alive until the husband arrived home. Despite Wyatt's previous chucking of his juice and flinging of his food, he greeted his Daddy with an innocent smile. Husband, seeing my crazy hair and even crazier expression, took the kids away from the house for several hours to let me finish my errands in peace.
I put on my pajamas and then went to the store to get the rest of the birthday party supplies. Why, you may ask, did I put my pajamas on before going to the store? Because I have an orange head, that's why. I can't think of a better day to shop in my pajamas than a day when I have an orange head. Graciously, the kind people of Giant Eagle didn't seem to judge me for my appearance. They must have children, too, I decided.
And you know what else I decided? I decided that I needed to press my face against the cool glass of the bakery window, that's what. Each delectable item seemed to be begging me for a home, so how could I, as an adoptive mother, resist giving a lost creation a home? I just couldn't do it. So, I chose a beautiful little thing to be mine. Picture it.... creamy chocolate fudge, topped with chocolate mousse, topped with whipped cream, topped with shaved chocolate and a cherry, all sweetly tucked into a dark chocolate bowl that was shaped like a large, delicious egg. It was breathtaking. A little piece of Heaven to save me from this Hellish day.
The bakery boy knew it had been a Murphy's Law kind of day. That's why he gave me the spoon. He knew I wasn't going to be able to wait until I got home to eat my special treat. He knew I was going to run through the parking lot like a woman on speed and sit in my cold car in the dimness of the parking lot lights, eating my chocolate egg. And he was right.
I carefully removed the egg from it's to-go tub and savored the first bite. And Friends, I just can't even tell you how amazing it was. There are no words. It was the only way to end this day. The only thing that could possibly right all the wrongs that had happened. With each bite, I could feel myself giving in to the idea that orange is actually an awesome color. I could also feel the chocolate egg shell start melting on my hands......
I tried to savor less and shovel more, attempting to beat the melting-chocolate-clock. I don't know if I squeezed too hard in my attempts to switch hands, but my egg shell cracked. Shattered, is a better word for it. And the remainder of my gooey, creamy, fudgey goodness dumped all over the front of me.
It's not like I was surprised. I should've seen it coming, just like the eye-twitch from that morning warned. So, I did the only thing left to do.
I licked my shirt clean in the parking lot of Giant Eagle.
I could tell you about falling with my groceries in our mudslide of a driveway, and then dropping the bag with my eggs once I finally made it inside. But what's the point? I have an orange head, my baby licked a toilet, and I sucked on my shirt today. Really, what else could go wrong?