I went to sleep too late last night, and when I woke up I was really tired. When I got out of bed I stepped on a Hot Wheels.
At breakfast I explained what we needed to get done that day and the thirteen year-old argued with me about what we should do. And the five year-old kept interrupting. The eleven year old pouted about having to eat plain old breakfast cereal.
After breakfast the thirteen year-old argued with me about the best way to clean the kitchen. The eleven year-old pouted about doing her chores and the one year-old whined to be held and the five year-old fussed about having to get dressed. I said I was getting frustrated. I said I was getting fussy. I said, "If I don't hear some polite voices, my ears are going to fall off." No one even listened.
The three year-old said "My tummy hurts."
While I was cleaning up the throw-up he threw up some more and the one year-old patted his own fragrant bottom and delightedly proclaimed "Boo-poo" and the eleven year-old couldn't understand why I didn't have the attention or patience to listen to her very important question. When I put the three year-old in the bath, his brother joined him. Fully clothed. "I hope you clean that up," I said. "I hope that the next time you decide to get in the bath you take your clothes off first and they land all the way in the hamper."
While I was telling the older boys to clean up the bathroom floor I noticed the toilet was leaking. While I fixed the toilet the baby went into the living room and dumped puffballs all over the floor. While I was getting the dustpan from the kitchen I knocked over my coffee and spilled coffee down the front of my newly cleaned white kitchen cabinets.
When we went to the library the one year-old got so angry about the toys that we had to leave because he was crying so hard. When we got home he pitched an even louder and angrier tantrum because I took off his shoes. He doesn't even like wearing shoes. Right in the middle of the tantrum my husband called and told me how wonderful it was walking on St. Andrews golf course at sunset.
At lunch, the eleven year-old didn't like the oranges. The five year-old didn't like peach yogurt, he wanted vanilla. We were out of vanilla. The one year-old threw his cheese on the floor and ran away. The three year-old ate his lunch then said, "My tummy hurts."
Guess who didn't get lunch?
After quiet time the five year-old pestered his sister until she screamed. Then she pestered him until he screamed and while he was trying to punch his sister for pestering him I came up the stairs and he got scolded for hitting and screaming. His sister got sent to her room too.
"I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day," I told everyone.
No one even answered.
At snack time the girls asked for orange juice. The five year-old wanted milk. The three year-old wanted to drink apple juice. I served them plain old water, but I didn't make them drink it.
After snack the three year-old was fine so when he asked for some juice I gave him some. "My tummy hurts," he said five minutes later.
It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
They're lucky I didn't box them all up and send them to Australia.
I'm glad I didn't, because at bedtime the girls played quietly and giggled together. The baby snuggled with his favorite book. The five year-old read me a story and the three year-old wanted me to blow good dreams in his ear.
I'd miss them if they were in Australia.