I’m quite surprised I have yet to be apprehended by the local police.

For intoxicated driving.

“No, officer. I didn’t down a couple of margaritas before I ventured out this morning. I just…have two kids,” I would stammer to the curious lawman, shooting him a knowing smile and gesturing to the back where my two children would sit. Curiously perfect angels where they were screaming, clawing demons a mere two seconds prior.

That smile, he wouldn’t so much as return, as he would then ask me to exit the vehicle and walk a straight line. Because said curious lawman is the one person who pulled me over this fine hypothetical Monday morning, who probably doesn’t have kids.

Only I’m completely incapable of walking a straight line, and this unfortunate disability is complicated by my current condition of being nine months pregs. I would wobble as I attempted to follow the marked area. Much like a weebil.

I’m shaped like one.

He would then ask me to recite the ABC’s backwards. “Uhhhh I can sing them,” I would reply sheepishly with a not-so-enchanting smile. Let’s just face it. I find the whole ABC’s backwards bit a little beyond challenging for this mush we now refer to as a thought-processing brain. My song would then be complimented by the pee pee dance, as he would refuse to release me until he at least checked my credentials {and perhaps with child services} until my sorry excuses for vaginal muscles failed me, yet again.

Let’s just face it. Hauled down to the county jail. She DID urinate on herself in public. What grown adult pees their pants?

There, I would sit sadly behind bars beside a rather large woman named DaTilda, mourning the ideal of a squeaky clean record now tainted by ridiculously demanding children and kegel exercises gone awry.

It never fails. I get them loaded into the car, ready to go. Juice. Diapers. Wipes. Snacks. Toys. Individual plasma televisions, ipods, personal masseuses…and anything else I can think they could possibly ask for.

I’m doing my best to enforce a no whining rule while driving, but sometimes it’s worth steering haphazardly, and weaving dangerously to find the last and final fruit snack, just to SHUT THEM UP.

Me: driving down the interstate. The car ride is a mere ten minutes. I find myself handling the delicate balance of chauffer, bartender, snack server, lovey retriever, car bouncer, DJ…forget outlawing phones
amidst the local public. Or that vicious rumor that elderlies should no longer be allowed to drive…I think I should be banned from all things pertaining to potential vehicular mishaps.

It’s the same song and dance EVERY single TIME.

Crying.

Aiden: Hey, hey, Mommy. Baby dropped her pacie! Baby dropped it. Will you get it, Mommy?

And of course, at first, I try the ignore-it-and-keep-driving approach. “Stay strong. They’ll learn,” I recite, as I turn up the radio... “Don’t make eye contact with the natives. They grow restless when you do that…”

Ten seconds later I find myself swerving a little as I at least attempt a glance at the floorboard to locate said pacie. Perhaps…I…can reach….

…incessant screaming driving me insane…

Aiden: I want a snaaaacccckkkk!!! Baby pooped her pants! Ew baby! I think I’m going to have to throw up now.

Me: Seriously kid? We’re almost there. (still reaching…now giving up…It’s almost like Aiden saw I was available, and decided to put in his own personal order while I was at it. )

Aiden: A frrruuuuiiiiittttt snaaaaaaacccckkkkkkk!

Me: We’re aaaaallllmooooosssssst there!

More crying. Now from Aiden, harmonizing oh so beautifully with Emerson. I think they practice while I’m asleep at night. At least they’re not tone deaf like their father.

Aiden: I dropped my toy!

Baby dropped her lovie!

I want my car!

I dropped my juice!

I waaaannnnt a snnnaaaaaaaaccckkkkk!

Me: We’re ALMOST THERE! (More haphazard weaving as I experience a simultaneous voice and blood pressure rise.) I attempt to grasp something from my bag to entertain them.

Pause: Bag=My ever growing plethora of accumulated crap, and if I happen to read one more “helpful” Martha Stewart article regarding the wonderful world of organized diaper bags I may have to mail her mine
with a pile of DIARRHEA diapers in it…

Me: STOP screaming guys. PLEASE. Mommy is TRYING to DRIVE!

Brief (shocked) silence.

Aiden: Nooooo! A fruit snack!

Emerson: Screaming.

Relentless-high-pitched-nightmarish-claw-my-eyeballs-out-and-chunk-them–at-her-screaming…

Me:
Honk.
Swerve.
Fishtail.
Donut.
Near-collision-with-a-semi-ending-in-not-so-pretty-hand-signal-altercations.

Aiden: Why did that man do that, mommy? What does that mean?

Me: Now panting breathlessly. Shaking. Turning up the radio yet again to drown out the horrid screams. (You would think I had withheld food for a good 48 hours and then slapped both of them. Repeatedly.)

Sigh.

I already have two little crazies. What’s one more? I’ll probably end up in the loony bin before they pull me over for a DUI anyway...such is the life of a contraceptively-challenged woman.

I finally embrace the inevitable and start screaming with them.

All the way to our final destination’s parking lot…

More {New} posts here:

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birdie slings & nappy bags

sassafras