Leaving The House

Little Man was just as exhausted from it all as I was.

     We needed a few things from the grocery store. Things that are essential to life in this house: diapers, apple juice...

     I brilliantly decided that the kids and I would simply drive down the street and get what we needed. 

     Right. Simply.  

     Going to the store requires leaving the house. And leaving the house with kids requires a good deal of skill. You need patience, tenacity, physical acuity, and a sound mind. I was low on all of these things at that moment. However, being the crazy thinking individual that I am, I still decided we'd go. I announced that we would be leaving in 20 minutes. 20 minutes. Ha! 

     Still being in pajamas with a messy top knot, I went to get dressed and comb my hair properly. This means that I stood in my closet in utter despair, and unable to put a cohesive outfit together, I threw up my hands and dug yoga pants and a tee out of the clean laundry pile. I then pulled my hair into a ponytail and tried to apply some minimal makeup so I wouldn't look like the walking dead. My declaration, "I am getting dressed so play quietly for a few minutes," signalled to the kids "Please lose your ever loving minds, bust into the bathroom like little bulls, lay on the floor screaming and fighting, pull all the Q-tips out and flush them down the toilet, and give me no privacy ever."

     Half an hour and "some" frustration later I was dressed. Time to dress the littles. I told Little Miss to pick out pants and a shirt and put them on then went to select something for Little Man to wear. 

     After wading through the clean laundry mountain I recovered a toddler sized shirt and pants. Now, Little Man does NOT like to get dressed. Ever. I chased him down, wrestled him out of his wet diaper, pinned the wailing, wriggling, writhing kid with my legs while I fumbled a new diaper on, shoved his head and arms into his shirt, put his legs into his pants about 1,999,999 times before both of them were in at the same time, squeezed on his socks, and forced shoes onto his very curled up and unwilling feet, then I jumped up with my hands in the air like I had just finnished a record hog tying.

     I called up to Little Miss who had been in her room, osentensibly to dress herself. She did not respond so I peeked in. She was sitting, still in her pajamas, surronded by piles of stuffed animals, debating which one she should take to the store with her. In a hurry, I pulled out some jeans and a top and asked her to just put them on. "Nooooooooo! I don't like those pants!" We battled over what she would wear for what seemed like hours and finally settled on something that I thought was revolting but she was in love with. I assented because I was just glad that she was putting on clothes. I then combed the snags and snarls out of her long and super fine hair. Lots of screaming, "Owwwwwww! You're brushing too hard!" later, she was dressed with combed hair. 

     I ordered her to put on socks and shoes and headed off to pack up Little Man's bag. Juice cup, check. Spare outfit, check. Wipes, check. Diapers, oh shoot...well that's why we're going to the store. 

     I hollered to Little Miss. She turned up. No socks. No shoes. She had been rethinking her choice of stuffed animal companion. I mandated that I would confiscate all stuffed animals if socks and shoes did not appear on her feet in the next few minutes. 

     By then Little Man had removed both shoes and one of his socks. I was almost weeping as I searched for them. 

     Finally everyone was dressed, had socks and shoes on, hair still sort of combed, the just right stuffed animal had been decided on, the bag was packed, all the right jackets were in hand and we were hobbling out the door red-faced, tired, and not too happy. 

     If only that was the finish line.

     We still had the store to navigate. But that is a whole other loooooooooong story. 

     Everytime I see other disheveled kids and moms at the store I don't judge their appearance. I nod, smile, and mentally fist pump the air in their general direction. Because they made it. They made it to the store. THAT ALONE IS A FEAT.