Of course since I had the balls to type what beautiful weather we've been having, it is now thirty effing degrees outside again. And raining. I could almost hear God saying "You little know-it-all, you're so smug about how Spring MUST be arriving early this year. I will show you." And with that, I was smited (smitten? smote? smoted?). The great big fat cherry on top of this shit-sundae is that we tried to get out and go to the library today. The main library's parking garage was full. The next closest library didn't open until noon, and it was 10:30am at this point. So we head to McDonald's for some chicken nuggets and fries, and they're OUT OF HIGHCHAIRS. Like, "Ooops, we just had some, but now we've run OUT." How do you run out of highchairs? Do people steal them? Is there a gang running amok in West Nashville, sneaking out of McDonald's with grey plastic highchairs shoved under their jackets? So I held a very squirmy Charlie on my lap while he threw fries everywhere, and Ella whined that she wanted to play the games instead of eating, and I almost had a damn nervous breakdown. For real. I threw the food back in the paper bag it came in and hissed, "If no one wants to eat them we are leaving. LEAVING." Not my proudest mommy moment to date, but what the hell. It seemed that the universe was conspiring against me to trash my day's plans. We made it to the car with two more meltdowns (Charlie because he wanted to walk and I wouldn't let him, and Ella because she wanted me to ask if she could trade her Happy Meal toy for a different one, and I said no because I don't think the order-taker girl spoke English and I did not particularly feel like getting into a half hour long conversation about could my four year old have the penguin toy instead of the monkey. Por favor?). Headed to a different library where it is apparently against city code to work there if you are under the age of 85, and Charlie got told to "be quiet!" by a woman who looked like she maybe had snuck out of the funeral home to come back to work that day. What I said: "Oh, okay. I'll try to keep him quiet, thanks!" What I wanted to say: "Look, Crypt Keeper. He is a BABY. A BABY, who is fourteen months old and has just recently figured out the mechanics of walking and clapping his hands, but I'll be sure to explain to him how we must keep our voices down in the library so that the ten geriatrics in the corner don't have to turn down their hearing aids or get distracted from their Absorbent Undergarments Quarterly. Thanks, beotch."
We got home and I threw the kids into their beds as quickly as possible and ran downstairs to do some work on the computer. And maybe rock myself for a minute in the corner while I suck my thumb.