Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Tomorrow Is Another Day
I woke up thinking today was going to be great. We had a wonderful at the beach yesterday, filled with sand, pizza, ice cream, and carousel rides. Kids woke up way too early but that was fine because they were both heading to camp, allowing me to tackle annoying chores and errands without small chatty chaperones. First trauma occurred at 7:30 a.m. I politely asked Sara to take her menagerie of stuffed animals upstairs to avoid her brother's attempted kidnapping/ransoming of said beloved animals and avoid any potential breakfast food spills all over them. I thought this was reasonable, if not brilliant, suggestion. She thought it was insane, cruel, unreasonable, etc. and reacted like Nathan Lane's character in the "Birdcage" upon being asked to vacate the house for the day, with accompanying screams. Calm and order restored, breakfast served, kids sunscreened, lunches packed, we head off to camps. Christian's drop-off was first, which concerned and delighted Sara. She was afraid she would be late for her camp but got to see her BFF. Their squeals of delight at their reunion would make passersby think it had been years since they last laid eyes on each other - it had been 4 days. I drop Sara off at zoo camp and remind her that she probably won't be able to feed and bathe the lions, no matter how much she begs. I head home to fill an order from a Thirty-One party I had last week. If it could go wrong, it did. Many times in many ways. The computer wasn't working properly. Items were not calculated properly. The poor hostess is probably getting a restraining order against me because of the multiple phone calls and emails. After Christian's too-brief nap, we pick up Sara from camp, cruise through the zoo and swing by Paul's office for some free drinks and snacks. We head home because we are hosting a friend's kids for a couple hours. I think I have a great afternoon planned out - feeding ducks, playing, spaghetti dinner followed by homemade cookies. What could go wrong? Everyone survives the fowl-feeding with limbs intact and clothes dry. Everyone plays nicely while I channel my deeply hidden inner domestic goddess and whip up dinner. Kids are eating dinner happily. For awhile. One of the girls tells me (post-dinner) that she is allergic to red sauce. OMG! Did I just kill my friend's kid? She is still leery after a mix-up at a dinner with a spatula and her husband's fatal nut allergy. Update - the child is fine but I may never recover. And I doubt I will ever be asked to babysit again. As Scarlett O'Hara says, "tomorrow is another day".