If You Need Me, You Might Want To Check With The Men In The White Coats

When I rolled over the sleeping form of my eldest child this morning and switched off the alarm, I had no idea I was heading into the kind of day that would make me reflect that a padded cell sounded awfully peaceful and serene.

Fifteen minutes later, as I hummed in the shower, the sudden din of what sounded like two small boys attempting to throw each other bodily down multiple flights of stairs gave me a dire hint of What Was To Come.

I don't know which side of the bed causes the level of whining I suffered through first thing this morning (most of it not even mine), but I'm planning on placing a brick wall there once I find out. The wailing and gnashing of teeth increased through the torment of packing a picnic lunch, as The Widget witnessed all matter of food disappearing into the picnic tote, obviously not destined for immediate consumption. DramaBoy sat, momentarily cooperative, in a chair and made smug comments to the tune of I'M not whining, Mama! You don't have to yell at ME! Charming.

We had to get out of the house earlier than usual, since the Detroit DPW was planning on "cleaning" the streets (better known as "smearing the dirt into interesting streaks") and all cars had to disappear between 8 ay-em and 4 pee-em. So before we descended upon our accommodating friends, I took the boys to Tim Horton's for donuts. Not to mention a caffeine fix for me. All was going surprisingly well until The Widget decided to tip his apple juice all down his front and DramaBoy began to play hide and seek around the counters.

(I also found out that I've been paying mocha prices at TH for about eight years when I should have just been charged for coffee, since I don't get the whipped cream on top. The whipped cream, apparently, is what makes it a mocha vs. a "half coffee, half hot chocolate" concoction. You think corporate headquarters would give me my money back?)

Once my friend's youngest son had woken from his nap, we piled in our cars and headed over to a nearby splashpark. We were delayed somewhat when I was pulled over by the police. Surprisingly, it wasn't for my duct-taped side mirror or the massive crack across my windshield. No, it was because my license plates have been expired for six-and-a-half-months.

Um, yeah.

You see, my birthday is on Christmas Day, which makes the whole thing a headache anyway, and then this last year my world/marriage fell apart two weeks before Christmas, and so with one thing and another, I kind of forgot.

For half a year.

Oh, and I didn't have my current proof of insurance with me because: guess where that was mailed? And guess where I wasn't these last few months?

I shared my sob story with the very nice and rather cute policeman, who asked me where I was living and why I was so far over on the West Side and glanced at my goggling children in the back seat (Mama, is that a policeman? Why won't he let us go? I can't see the line leader anymore! What KIND of mistake did you make, Mama? Is he going to let us go? Why aren't we moving?), and then he went back to his car to do sinister policeman stuff and I sat there answering my son's questions while mentally whacking myself on the back of the head and waving bye-bye to my bank balance.

Then lo and behold, the nice (and cute) policeman took pity upon me, wrote me a fix-it ticket for "not having my registration card in the car," told me to go get my license renewed, and saved me about $170 in fines.

And I didn't even actually sob or heave my bosom ONCE. Though my hands and voice may have been a little shaky.

At the splashpark, the kidlets became suddenly fearful of becoming wet, since the water was cold even if the day wasn't, and mostly splashed about in warm puddles instead of all the fancy sprinklers. I am willing myself to believe that the puddles were warm because of the sun.

(Note to self: stick to free splashparks until the kids stop being wimps. Cuz otherwise they'll be getting wet whether they like it or not, and then there might be some annoying fallout with Protective Services.)

My afternoon tutoring session was postponed, which left me with plenty of time to drag the kids from one suddenly necessary errand to another, namely tracking down my insurance agent (they'd moved) and getting a new copy of my POI, nipping into my school district's central office to pick up the new laptop that is replacing the PC at work, then backtracking to the Secretary of State's office to get my license plates renewed. With two young boys who had all of twenty minutes of naptime in the car, cruelly interrupted when we arrived at our first destination.

And in case you weren't sure yet whether I am certifiable, I then took them with me to Meijer to pick up a few necessaries because I didn't know when else I would be able to get there before the weekend.

By the time I wheeled the stupid car cart (with TV, conveniently placed on one side opposite to the faux steering wheel to offer maximum opportunity for arguing, hair pulling, biting, head knocking, and other brotherly pursuits) into the checkout lane, I apparently looked like I'd been the sole survivor of a natural disaster. At least that got a little sympathy from the cashier, who summoned a bag-girl to fetch me a regular cart for the required transfer of groceries and then later chased me down to give me the milk I'd forgotten on her bag stand. The two young men standing behind me in line looked on with mingled amusement, pity, and horror, never realizing how often I prevented my monsters from mowing them down with the cart, thanks to sheer muscle and mommy reflexes.

Perhaps I imagined it, but I think one of them may have added a box of condoms to their small pile.

Then I drove us all home (Let's just have quiet time, okay? Let's pretend we don't even know how to make any sounds at all!), threatened my way through the drama of dinnertime (If you don't eat it, you go to bed hungry! *** One more "no" out of you and there's no story before bed! *** That's it, go in time out!) , and wrangled the boys into bed (Don't you DARE get out of that bed, young man!).

And how am I now, as I sit here at my computer between bouts of continued boy-wrangling? Well, let's just say that the reason I haven't broken out the Smirnoff pomegranate martini is because if I open the bottle, I can't take it on my Girls' Weekend out at the island. I've about used up my luck with the police, and I don't want to have to start popping my top.*

Besides, I'm not so sure my saggy mommy boobies would keep me out of jail.

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*Don't panic, Grandma. Never done it. Don't plan on ever doing it. Just said it for laughs.