It apparently didn't agree with her. Three diaper
blowouts later (only one of which was hers), I gave up on the wet wipes and
dumped Ford in the bathtub. Finley lulled me into a false sense of security,
leaning over the bathtub and "helping" me scrub him and sharing her
bath toys... and then leapt over the side, fully clothed, right on top of him.
By 0800 I was at my wits' end. I did the only think I
could think of: I took both kids to Wal Mart (a half hour away, in Germantown!)
in their pajamas. You can take the girl out of Fayetteville, it seems, but you
can't take the Dirty South out of the dark recesses of a desperate parent's
mind.
Of course it was a total disaster. Finley had the
meltdown of the century when I wouldn't let her have a bike. (She desperately
wants a big girl bike. And a helmet.) The thin and wimpy restraints of this
ridiculous cart failed to keep her from multiple attempts to leap from it, and
I dragged two redfaced, shrieking kids (and the garden hose I had been
determined to purchase) from the store. I cannot be the first person to have created
that scene, by way of consolation.
Hell, it's Wal Mart. I probably wasn't even
the first one that day.
Both little demons had gotten it together by the time we
got to the car, naturally, so I committed another rookie move and took them to
Wegman's to grab a couple grocery items. (I can't pass up a Wegman's.) It was
of course an abbreviated trip. Finley latched onto a double Milky Way bar that
was, for some reason, packaged end to end so that it was roughly the size and
heft of a police baton, and yanked it back from me so hard when I tried to
return it to the shelf that it went flying and hit Ford square in the nose.
Disaster #2 ensued, and it wasn't even 0930. And I still had not eaten. Or had
coffee.
So I decided to drive thru Chick-fil-a. (Germantown has
all the good stuff.) Only that was yet another fail, since Chick-fil-a drive
thrus are legendarily long and my patience is short. Against my better judgment
(but very committed to the idea of that tender, delicious chicken now), I
hauled both kids out of the car again. And that's when Finley saw the
playground. She's never been to a fast food restaurant with a playground, and
it exceeded her wildest dreams.
Until she crawled too far up the slide backwards, became
terrified and refused to move, and required me to actually leave Ford in the
care of a perfect stranger while I clambered up the slide to rescue her. Which
was too small, obviously, for my fat ass, so I scraped off half my back on
the edge and added to the cacophony of screams inside the tube (but managed to
avoid the f- word, so I'm still going to call that a win.)
Both kids screamed the entire way home. Finley, between
bites of grilled chicken tenders.
She also poured out her entire milk, which I had
foolishly put in her cupholder. That must have been why she was so thirsty, which
led her to do this
when I left her next to the car AND my unfinished soda to
carry Ford up to the house.
Now she had had a cup of coffee, half a diet Coke, and a
chocolate chip cookie she had grabbed from a bakery case and stuffed in her
mouth at Wegman's when I was picking out apples. My dreams of naptime faded
before my very eyes.
But then, when I went back to the car to get her, she had
climbed up into the passenger seat and turned up Trampled by Turtles on the
radio, one of my favorite bands. She was seat-dancing along and chewing on a
cracker of unknown origin when I sat down in the driver's seat to retrieve my
sunglasses and turn off the car. The a/c blowing in our faces, Finley looked up
at me conspiratorially as if to say "are we really doing this?!" and
bobbed her head to the beat. I gave up and sang along.
And those are the moments that keep you from leaving your
kids at Chick-fil-a with a note reading "free to a good home."
It had been a week, that was for sure. After a trip to
the ER on her fourth straight day of running a fever, we found out that Finley
had strep.
And so did the rest of us. Seth and I had spent most of
the week in an elaborate juggling act to make appearances at work while not
leaving our banned-from-daycare kids at home alone, and by Thursday- which
involved two trips back and forth to work for each of us, and a hasty emergency
room handoff- we were run ragged. I took all day Friday off, and planned a sick
day on the couch for all three of us.
Of course Finley's antibiotics kicked in first,
necessitating pool time while I gulped penicillin and prayed for 6pm.
By which time we were all feeling a little better
(antibiotics are magical), so Seth and I made another terrible decision and
took them to happy hour. We had done it successfully once and should have quit
while we were ahead. As you can see from this collage, Finley had a terrific
time anyway. And the angel baby slept peacefully. Seth and I took turns
scarfing burgers while violating all conceivable liquor laws, chasing the
little terrorist up and down the pedestrian street with wineglass in hand. (They were having a
sidewalk sale. Finley loves sidewalk sales. Apparently.)
The rest of the weekend was a blur. At some point Seth
went fishing
and fried up his catch. I got the house cleaned and
celebrated with mimosas. We all started to feel better and I made it to the
pool with Finley, although SoulCycle was a bridge too far. Ford, who loves TV
although we never actually let him watch it, convinced his Dad (who had had a
beer or two) to let him stay up half the night watching "Straight Outta
Compton." I am not kidding.
For the first time since I can remember, going to work on
Monday is an actual relief. I still have a bit of a sore throat, but sitting at
a desk with cough drops seems like a vacation, comparatively.
At least our sick week yielded some terrific photos of
the week.
This is Ford, asleep mid-bottle, as I found he and Seth
on the couch Friday night (Seth was racked out too).
And Finley, giving me the "don't even think about
taking away this ice cream" look.A classic.
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