Why can't I have normal kids that do normal kid things?
Vacation Bible School: two hours of peace and quiet at home
Fantasy: drop kids off, smile and wave, say "Have a wonderful time!", spend a nice evening relaxing.
Reality: sneak kids in side door, hope no one sees you, and run like hell to the car before they kick your kids out, go home and fret about what catastrophe will be waiting on the flip side.
I was so excited to take my two littles to VBS tonight. Building a strong faith foundation in my children is extremely important to me. I had visions of their tiny cherubic faces beaming up at their teacher listening to Bible stories that will positively impact their lives. My oldest even decided to volunteer his time to help. This all added up to (what I thought) would be a perfect evening. A few hours to myself meant much needed mommy rejuvenation.
So in we strolled, swung by the registration desk, grabbed name tags and met up with our respective groups. Once the kids were settled in, I said a quick hello to a few other mommies I knew, chatted with a friend, and headed home. I then grabbed the remote, chose a sappy rom-com on Netflix and kicked back for two hours. My nails even got a top coat refresher. What a blissful two hours!
What a quick two hours! Refreshed, I headed back to the church to pick up my tribe members. When I enter I hear a multitude of sweet children singing their praises to Jesus. Be still my mommy heart. Then I peek my head into the sanctuary. Mistake. I spy my almost 5-year-old daughter being held by an adult helper. No. Other. Child. Is. Being. Held. Including a sweet little 18 month old toddling around between the pews.
My mind instantly flips. Why is she being held? What did she do? Why can't she sit still and sing songs and watch cheesy skits like EVERY other child in there? Then she sees me. Crap. Now she yelps a thousand reasons why she needs to see me. She starts squirming and hollering at the lady to let her down. Seeing that her handler is not complying with her demands, she begins shrieking and bouncing around like rabid spider monkey until the visibly worn woman looks to me for assistance.
Good feeling's gone. Begrudgingly I head toward my daughter and take her from the poor lady. We can see exhaustion in each others eyes. She gets it. I get it. Then I turn to swiftly escort my little princess out as fast as I can. Shoulder nearly dislocated from her constant pulling on my arm, I head toward the bathroom to her incessant "I've gotta go potty" chants.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, my youngest son also has to go potty. Seriously?! Why do they both have to go at the same time? Why can't one child sit and be the epitome of preschool perfection while I discreetly take care of the other? I digress... So out my son marches a young girl of no more than twelve to the boy's bathroom while I sit in paradise next door with my daughter.
Once little diva has been wiped and washed, we exit the ladies room only to find said twelve year old, whom promptly announces that my son has wet his pants. This is when a small bomb explodes in my head yet I simply say through gritted teeth that I'll take care of it. As I peek in the men's room to check on my son the smell of gut bomb overwhelms me. The fact that my daughter is continuing her life goal of dislocating my shoulder one hundred times a day is lost on me because a nuclear warhead has detonated in my skull. Oh, and little guy is not wearing any shoes. The hits just keep on coming. Where are his shoes? Did he step in crap? Why is my daughter clawing and climbing my arm?
As calmly as I can - because we're in public, after all - I inform my son to get his shoes. Twelve times. Since he had his pants pulled back up into their normal position, I inferred he had taken care of his bowel movement by himself. Wait, what am I, a rookie? Why did I think that? Have I lost my mind completely? (See previous paragraph containing my daughter the spider monkey for more information regarding my lack of sanity.) Once little guy had shoes in hand I lured him out of the men's bathroom, grabbed him by his hand, shot my oldest son a look of desperation which he translated as "Oh, we're leaving NOW," and headed for the nearest exit. Once outside, my oldest son started to mutter "what happened?!" but the odor of fecal matter quickly overwhelmed him and he drew his conclusion to his mother's rapidly declining mental status.
Fast forward to our arrival home. Daughter was promptly sent to her room to decrease the amount of children I had to juggle and Captain Crappy Pants was dragged into the shower. As I helped him undress I noticed he was going commando. But wait a minute, I remember putting Spidey underwear on him this morning. Horror! Shock! Dismay! This meant his crap-covered skivvies were left behind. At the church. For someone else to find. Oh. My. Lord.
And that folks ends another red letter day for the Hot Mess Becks.
*This post brought to you by a refreshingly perfect vodka cocktail.
