I decided to go to yoga. Small decision. Big deal. It’s been
a, um, while since I’ve made it to a class, and longer since I’ve gotten
through an entire one without being called away to the childcare center for a
needy/hungry/grumpy/wet/poopy baby. But today was my first official day since
my mom left that I had no obligations whatsoever after taking the big kids to
school. So I took Coco and Lolo and nursed in my car and changed everyone right
before class, and crossed my fingers, and even made it with five minutes to
spare.
Yoga. It worked.
I left and I felt amazing. The babies were both happy when I
picked them up. We came home. They napped (simultaneously) and I set about
cleaning out the car, doing some meal-prep, doing some school-prep, folding
three back-logged loads of laundry. Standard stuff. Suddenly, the babies were
up, mid-afternoon was upon us and it was time for pickup. Coco sat on my bed
with me while I nursed and changed Lolo. She ate an apple the size of her head
and took all the skin off (with her teeth) and shed it on a nearby bath towel.
We picked up the kids. I got everyone a snack. We were home
for 5 minutes to potty/get sweatshirts, and then walked up to the park to meet
friends. We returned just past dusk and I continued getting dinner ready. Big
kids played in living room, Coco milled around, Lolo was in one hand since he
recently figured out how to roll both ways and now won’t tolerate a swing or a
bouncy seat. Blah.
Then this (switching to present tense for dramatic effect):
Coco points to her diaper (she’s great at letting me know
what’s happening down below), so I bring Lolo in the living room to
investigate. But the child doesn’t wait. She’s unsnapped her diaper cover and I
can see/smell what’s inside.
“Ack, STOP! Don’t—“.
Frantic, I set Lolo down (safely albeit slightly
precariously) on the couch, and lay Coco on the floor. No wipes. I have no
wipes. I give her a stern “Stay there”, and get up. Lolo seems cool. I grab
wipes from the baby room, and as I race through the kitchen I remember,
“Ack, quesadilla, on the stove.”
I make a quick detour to the kitchen, flip the quesadilla,
turn the burner off, and I’m about to head back to the living room when I hear
the front door open.
Daddy’s home.
Oh thank goodness.
O.M.G. What has he walked into?
I peer into the living room. I see Lolo’s kicking feet on
the couch, Coco about to roll over on the floor, three laundry-loads worth of
clothes all over the place, plus the two paper bags of car items I found when I
cleaned the van, about seven sweatshirts, my big kids who somehow stealthily
turned the TV on in the midst of this. Ahem. I bolt into the living room,
spatula in hand.
“What’s going on here?” he asks.
“Listen, I know it looks like…“ Deep breath. “Listen, it’s
under control. Seriously this is just like the worst possible time. Ten more
minutes and things would be—“
“What’s Lolo doing on the couch.”
-Shrug-
“What’s that smell?”
“Oh, that’s poop. Or are you referring to the slightly burnt
quesadilla?”
-Pause-
“Why is there apple peel on our bed?”
“Stop asking questions!”
***
Hey, I went to yoga.
