Ever have one of those days when you feel like you're totally rocking it? Like you woke up, grabbed life by the balls and and spent the rest of the day kicking ass all over town?
Well, despite an award-winning lack of sleep two nights ago (sleep-sucking family drama, not awesome, not discussing it further), I was in serious ass-kicking mode. The ultimate goal was to make it to our 1pm 'Nursery follow up' appointment to get Toddler Monkey checked out by the developmental psychologist.
Which meant, I had to start plotting my strategy during the 5am Baby Monkey feed.
I rocketed through a non-ideal 6 am wake up by Toddler Monkey, effectively coordinating meals and naps to accommodate what was predicted to be a three hour afternoon ordeal. Dishes were done, clothes were folded, snacks were packed, milk was pumped, and I even muscled in a 15 minute power nap and a good scrub of that drain thingy in the dishwasher. There I go again, bragging about my outrageously glamorous lifestyle --how insensitive of me.
Next, I expertly juggled about 80 collective lbs of toddler, baby plus car seat, and diaper bag (to quote my grandfather, 'It's not the kids so much as the ground support gear') and even bulleted my way past a sadly obese father-son duo on my way into the children's hospital.
In general, the appointment went just as well as I could have expected. Watching the soft-spoken, somewhat squirrelly psychologist present my son with various tasks (while I bottle-feed the other guy), my thoughts swung wildly back and forth between believing my child to be a purely ingenious savant to visualizing him one day waving blankly at us from the back of a short bus.
I also tried desperately to keep my big mouth shut and avoid being one of those parents ('Come on! You do that at home all the time! Really sir, he stacks blocks at home all the time. Just give him another shot, those blocks are really just too small...') and let the little guy do his thing, uninterrupted by an insane and unusually pushy cheerleader.
To his credit, when he couldn't figure out how to accomplish a task, he would tactfully try to hand things off to me ('here mommy, open this jar please so I can have that Cheerio?' ... except it came out, 'dada??').
By the end, I was just happy to learn that my eldest child is comfortably 'Average'. 'Regular average' for his chronological age (17 months) and 'high average' for his adjusted age (15 months).
I am looking forward to sending him to school on a regular-sized bus and posting a number of C+ papers to our refrigerator door.
I'll take average.
After a quick visit with a familiar neonatologist (wait, didn't I just see you at the NICU? Can't you just have a normal baby for once?), we were out of there in just under three hours. Looking a little like the butch-er half of a lesbian modern family, I heaved my oversized load of offspring back through the sweltering heat and piled them securely into the tiny backseat of my husband's extended cab pickup truck.
Or so I thought.
Now, I might look like a competent diesel dyke driving around an F-150, but my attempt to pull into our drivewa while stealthily avoiding an oncoming car proved otherwise.
As I turned, I suddenly felt the truck hesitate and stall while simultaneously being bombarded by an awful crunching and scraping sound that could only mean one thing: I had run the passenger side of the truck across the front bumper of a tiny late-model Hyndai Elantra parked unobtrusively in front of my neighbor's house.
To make matters even worse, Ready or Not Dad was standing in our neighbor's yard chatting with the neighbor...so there was an excellent audience, but sadly, no applause.
Wait, it gets even worse.
Playing it totally cool (as if this was all part of my usual driving routine), my husband strolled over and surveyed the damage while also assessing the best way to untangle the two vehicles. He quickly surmised the best course of action was to find the owner and ask them nicely to back the car up and out of the poorly planned path of what now felt like a monster truck.
The owner turned out to be a rail-thin twenty-something hipster who got to wear skinny jeans, chucks, and an ironic t-shirt to her job at the trendy Internet marketing firm located at the end of our street.
If she hasn't been so damn forgiving, I would have hated her and her razor-short haircut right from the start.
She pleasantly backed her car out of my path of destruction and barely batted an eye when we observed how part of her bumper fell away as she did so.
While engaging in the typical exchange of information, she offered to make photo copies of our insurance cards back at her office.
If there's one thing that will bulldoze your ego faster than hitting a parked car, it's walking into a trendy office space filled with hipsters under the age of 25, ignoring you and clicking away on their space-age computers to an obscure Regina Spektor song and knowing they probably made twice your salary last year.
I have never been more self conscious about my post-baby thighs, outlet mall running shoes and cotton stretch pants.
So, there you have it folks. That's how your day can take a 180 degree turn from ball-grabbing and ass-kicking to getting smacked upside the head with the reality of your terminally uncool and clumsy existence.
Ready or Not Mom: 0
Better luck next time there Stretch Pants McGee...better luck next time.