Not a whole lot has been happening in our house lately. Other than life. Which these days consists of: playdates, ballet, visiting Grandad, going potty (successfully, might I proudly add), work, swimming, and a temper tantrum or two.
Some from Aria.
Some from Mommy.
See, I have this itty-bitty, teensy weensy, tiny little preoccupation with BEING ON TIME.
And if I'm not on time to wherever important place I'm going, be it swim lessons or work or church or yoga or dinner with friends, which happens frequently - the not being on time part, sadly not the dinner with friends part - I get really, really, really, REALLY irritable. As in, Girl-in-The Exorcist-whose-head-spins-around-and-spews-bile kind of irritable.
With two young children and a chronically laidback husband, I am often late, which causes me to often spew bile, metaphorical bile, of course. (There's two words you don't usually see in a sentence together, metaphorical bile).
Chris, Love O' My Life - bless his Eh? we'll get there when we get there heart - is so non-worried about the silly things in life. The silly things like, oh, say, getting there when we said we would and not a half-hour later. Whereas, me, I plan everything, and then re-plan for a backup plan accounting for things like traffic, and then I'll re-re-plan a back-up plan for the back-up plan, accounting for the unexpected, such as power outages, natural disasters, baby vomit on the Sunday best, and the like.
Although if you know my sweet Caroline, baby vomit should NOT be in the unexpected category.
Funny thing about vomit. I used to be deathly afraid of it. I couldn't see it, hear it, smell it, or even think it without becoming nauseated myself and sometimes launching into a full-on panic attack. It's probably one reason I went into neonatal nursing -- not to avoid the vomit, per se, but just to experience it in smaller quantities. I remember watching some poor man wretch his guts out his car window in the street in front of our house one day when I was about nine or ten. I ran straight inside and asked my mom to go clean it up. To my dismay, she justifiably refused to do so, therefore, I had no other recourse than to avoid that region of the street for the rest of my life. Little Sarah did not set foot, bike, or rollerskate in the vomit area, for years. In fact, I still don't know if I could walk on it with bare feet to this day. Just saying.
Well, so you know, God cured me of that quirk straightaway. He blessed me with two children who vomit frequently and at random. Aria's, of course, is a bit worse and more traumatic, as she has a hearty appetite, and hers usually occurs at the end of a very big meal. Caroline's is projectile in its intensity, but only consists of recycled formula and occasionally some delectable Green Bean Chicken Apple Stew or Hearty Summer Squash Turkey.
Be honest, who wouldn't throw that up?
So, I've begun telling my sweet husband that things start a full half-hour before they actually begin. If our movie starts at 8, I tell him 7:30. If our plane leaves at 10, I tell him 9:30. Is it a little white lie? Maybe. But I prefer to regard it as Preventative Maintenance, precluding almost certain quarrel. He's on to me now, however, and I don't think this admission on a blog post is going to do me any favors. He's starting to ask me, when does such-and-such start? I'll give him my (30 minutes early) reply, and he'll say, "Yeah, okay. But when does it REALLY start?" Curses. Time to formulate a new plan.
Take, for instance, our movie date last week. Chris' brother and wife were in town with their kids, so we all made plans to go see Toy Story 3. I chose a later-ish movie time because of the fact that WE ARE ALWAYS LATE, and I justified it by this being a special occasion and all, since it was Aria's first ever movie. My husband headed off to work that morning, and I didn't hear from him again until about oh, say, six-ish. Keep in mind we are taking a 2-year-old, a 3-year-old, and a 7-year-old to the movies with us, the former two who are very excited about attending their first movie ever. A movie which unfortunately is slated to begin right about the time they should be going to bed.
So I've mentally prepared myself to take the kids to the movie by myself and just have Chris meet us there. This would solve the WE ARE ALWAYS LATE problem, but would kind of negate the whole going-to-the-movies-as-a-family thing. Nonetheless, Chris rolls in the door at a very awkward time on the clock: not early enough so as to shower and change and we could have hopes of being on time, yet not late enough that I can blow him a kiss and holler, "See ya at Valley View Mall!" and be on time while honoring the Family Movie concept. Hmm. Conundrum. What to do? What to do?
I decided to do the right thing. Which was: text my sister-in-law Lori that we were running late, smile pleasantly at my husband and encourage him in soothing tones to please hurry, and then sit on my hands to prevent myself from grabbing the kids and the car keys and making a break for it. (Yes, I know. I'm queen of the run-on sentences. Big deal). My internal dialog went a little as such: Really? I said over and over, What are we missing? Some dumb previews. Not worth an argument. Not worth it.
(Oh! How I love the previews! But not the point.)
Chris eventually got showered and changed, and made his way to his family waiting (im)patiently in the car. I was still smiling pleasantly, being as sweet as possible when...
Out came the bile. Not Aria's. Not Caroline's. Mine.
Yep. This is what I said (spewed). "Chris Thomas! You have known me for ten years. You know how I am about being late. You know how much anxiety it gives me. Whyyyy can't we just BE ON TIME? Do you think? Just one time? You could try and be on time?" Bile. Big, green, metaphorical bile.
Do you know what Chris did? Nothing. The boy knows how to handle me, that's for sure. He gave me a snort or a snicker, and then just pleasantly ignored my petulance. Asked me about my day, what snacks I wanted at the movie, what my plans were for tomorrow.
He's a smart man.
And guess what? After all that, we were thirty minutes early. With three young children. For a highly-anticipated kid movie. A crowded kid movie. That starts at my kids' bedtime. You can imagine how that went.
At least, I got to see my beloved previews.
In case you are wondering, Toy Story 3 is hysterical. Aria loved her first movie (although, it could have been the popcorn and twizzlers that swayed her vote). And the best part: at a particularly hushed lull, Aria hollers out, "Mommy! I needa go poopy, NOW!"
Yeah, yeah, Lord, I get it. You are humbling me. I need to calm down. Nothing is worth a metaphorical-bile-spewing argument on Family Movie Night.
Even missing the previews.