A string of unfortunate incidents

My husband’s been out of town for the last four days for work, so it’s just been me and the kiddos here at home. Five or six years ago, this long of a solo-parenting stretch would have stressed me out immeasurably. But the kids are older now, and much more self-sufficient, so it’s entirely manageable.

That doesn’t mean it’s without its challenges, though.

Take Saturday, for instance.

6:00am:

I’m awakened by Noah screaming “MOMMMMM!” from his bathroom. I hop out of bed, and slink myself down the hall to find the toilet on the verge of overflowing with brown, poopy water. “I just flushed it! And it wouldn’t stop!” Luckily this kind of thing is not an unusual occurrence in my household, so there are two different plunger options nearby for me to choose from. I pick my weapon, but quickly realize that trying to get it inside the bowl, even ever-so-gently, is going to cause a monsoon to spill out onto the floor. I open the back tank to see if I can pull something (anything) and get it to drain a little bit, but given that I am not a plumber, I choose the wrong plunging doohickey and the opposite happens—poopy water gushes EVERYWHERE. I do know enough, at least, to reach down and turn off the main water supply. It takes a minute, but the brown fountain finally stops.

Noah, of course, is screaming again, because POOP. I calmly give him a job to distract him from the grossness of it all. “Hey bud, can you go get me 3 or 4 towels, please, so we can sop up what’s on the floor and I can try to fix the clog?” He obliges, and I get to work. It takes at least a dozen plunges, and an equal number of more poopy water overflows, before the clog gets loose and the tide stars receding. I flush a few times to make sure…and start cleaning up the floor. Noah immediately asks, “Mom? Can I use your bathroom? I still have to go.”

So much for sleeping in on the weekend.

4:30pm:

I’ve just dropped Noah off at a friend’s house for a sleepover. Ellie and I go to Target to look for some things for her upcoming school overnight trip. It’s only a half-successful endeavour, so we decide to head to Marshall’s next. About three minutes after we get back in the car, I hear a high-pitched squeal from the backseat.

“MOMMMMM!”

Of course, I’m driving, so I say, “Ellie, what??? I can’t look right now. Can you tell me what happened?” Her only response: “I. DON’T. KNOWWWWW!!”

At the next stoplight I crane my head around to find her hands up in the air in surprise…and a liquidy, green glitter explosion covering her pants, shirt, and half the backseat of my car. “My squishy stress ball! It…it just busted open!!”

If you’re a parent, you know that glitter is the herpes of the craft world. It infests everything. And if you’re me, who doesn’t even let my kids eat in my car, you know that this feels like The Carpocalypse. My knee-jerk reaction to this unfortunate incident, which I erroneously speak out loud, is “UGH this is going to be a nightmare to get off my seats.” Ellie has the appropriate 11-year old response and asks, “what about getting it all off ME??” So instead of heading to Marshall’s, we make a beeline back to the house.

As soon as we get home, Ellie heads upstairs to take a shower, and brings her clothes in with her to wash them out. I grab the paper towels, a bunch of different cleaning options, and head out into the garage to start wiping. Her cleaning attempt is almost entirely successful. Mine is maybe 75% of the way there. The glittery goop comes off my leather seats, and the seat belt, pretty easily, but the floor carpets are another story. And since I’d just been through the car wash the day before, I resign myself to the fact that I’m going to have to live with some sparkle for a while.

Such is life.

7:35pm:

Since it’s just me and Ellie for the night (Noah’s at his sleepover, and Brady’s still on his work trip), we decide to go out for a Girls’ Night dinner. We have a lovely meal at a Mexican place near our house, take some cute photos together outside, and walk back to parking deck to find head back home. When we initially got there, I had purposefully chosen a spot near a pole so that there would only be one other car beside me, making it easier to get in and out without worrying about our doors (OK, mostly Ellie’s) hitting someone else’s car. Experience and foresight, you know?

We get into the car, both buckle up, and Ellie starts talking about something (I don’t remember what) as I pull into reverse and start to back out. I check to the right—the coast is clear. Left side? Also good. I keep slowly backing out, trying to (pretend like I can) pay attention to whatever Ellie is saying while also gently maneuvering my steering wheel, when suddenly I hear “THHHUNNNNKKKK!”

We both freeze.

I look behind me. Nothing.
Look to the right. Nothing.
Look to the left. OH FUCKING A.

You know my brilliant decision to park next to a pole, so we’d only have one car next to us instead of two? Well, that same pole just broke my side mirror all the way off. Like hanging by the cables.

I pull forward a smidge until I can safely open my door without inflicting more damage, put the car in park, and assess the situation. “Well kiddo, things happen in threes, right? There was the poopy toilet, the glitter explosion, and now I broke my car. Hopefully we’re done for the day.”

Since there’s really nothing I can do about my newly dangling vehicle appendage, I slowly back out again (much more aware of concrete poles this time) and drive home. I call Brady on the way to tell him what happened, and ask him what to do. He’s surprisingly calm, too. “Yeah, remember when I did that to the minivan trying to avoid hitting a mailbox? I was able to order some parts and fix it myself. We’ll look at it when I’m back.”

Once safely back in my own garage, I proceed to reattach the mirror with clear packing tape. I don’t want it to fall off again. Or worse, for me to forget that it’s already broken and smash into something else. You can’t be too careful, you know.

10:45pm:

After all of the excitement of the day, I’m pooped, and it’s already way past my usual 9:30 bedtime. I’m just starting to fall asleep, all tucked-in and cozy in my bed, when my phone suddenly rings. Or rather, startlingly vibrates, since I never have the ringer on at night. I glance over to my nightstand to see who’s calling, thinking it might be Brady. (He’s in SF so he’s three hours behind…maybe he wants to say goodnight?) But nope, it’s Noah’s friend’s mom, saying he wants to come home from the sleepover. She asks if I want to talk to him and I say yes, so she hands him the phone.

“Hey buddy. What’s going on?”
“I can’t sleep here. There are too many people.”
“Do you want to ask if there’s a quieter spot? I think you’ll be sad if you’re not there in the morning with all of your friends.”
“No, I just want to come home. Can you come get me, please?”
“OK, ok. Yeah. Let me get some clothes on. I have to wake up your sister, too. We’ll be there in a little bit.”
So up I get.

I throw on some leggings and a t-shirt, tell Ellie what’s happening, and we both slink down to the car and sleepily make our way over to Noah’s friend’s house to pick him up. He’s waiting at the door with his overnight bag. His friend’s mom apologizes, which of course is not necessary, and I respond with my own apology. She says he’s welcome to come back in the morning to have breakfast with the rest of the boys. I say thank you, apologize again, and head back home in the darkness.

As soon as we get there, Noah walks upstairs and puts himself to bed. Ellie puts herself BACK to bed. I, of course, am wide awake now, so I spend far too long on Instagram before finally deciding that’s a bad idea. I put down my phone and close my eyes. The last thing I remember thinking before falling asleep is, “Well, Noah’s home now, so at least I don’t have to get up early tomorrow morning to pick him up from the sleepover.”

7:00am:

I’m awakened by Noah screaming “MOMMMMM!” from his bedroom. He immediately rushes into my bedroom, crying, and throws himself down on the comforter.

“I WANT TO GO BACK TO DANIEL’S HOUSE! I REGRET COMING HOME LAST NIGHT!!!”

This time, I have the good sense to at least mumble under my breath what I’m thinking, rather than saying it out loud. “OH FUCKING A. Here we go again.”

—

It has taken me almost 12 years not to completely lose my shit when one thing goes wrong, much less a string of four unfortunate incidents in 25 hours. I am proud of myself for how well I handled all of it. Ellie even noticed my uncharacteristic calmness.

After the glitter explosion, as we were walking into the house to begin the multi-pronged clean-up attack, she turned to me and said, “You know, you’d usually get really mad when stuff like this happens. Have you been working on it?”
“I have, kiddo.”
“Well, you’re doing a good job.”

I take that as the highest compliment possible.
And as a gift to myself for my accomplishments, I will also be taking next weekend off.
Have fun, dear. And welcome home.