How I Lost My Mind

Oh, man. I am so close to just calling it off. Here's the towel. I'm insane.

This morning was perfect. I've been fighting a losing battle with a cold this week, and I woke up this morning feeling better than I ever have. So that was good. Breakfast was perfect; the kids were perfect. My dear husband and I even had one of those moments when it was, like, Saturday morning, and you're both awake early, and you're both cuddly and have been waiting all week for this moment just to catch up on everything you haven't had time to talk about. Just perfect.

And then, Nora didn't want to go to the playground. The more I looked at her, the more I realized, this kid is still sick. (Yeah, she brought this junk home from preschool and infected all of us at the same time. Awesome.) She feels like crap. And honestly, we all kinda feel like crap. Okay...plan B. Let's move on to making gluten-free, casein-free cookies. No need to worry about getting our germs in the dough; we're all sick anyway. She's excited, George is excited, everyone's great. But the dishes need done, apparently exactly at the same time as the cookies need to be made, so we had twelve inches of space to make cookies--and with a grabby 3-year-old. *grumble*

Can I try it, Mama?

Yes, you can have a chocolate chip. Here.

Can I have some chocolate chips in a bowl, Mama?

No.

*grabs handful of cookie dough out of bowl*

Nora, no. Mama said no.

*crying* But I want it! *screaming*

You can help me stir, honey. But no more trying. We can eat them when they come out of the oven.

And magically, Nora's carrot snack ends up in the flour. The vanilla falls off the counter. I go to pick it up, and she's got her hands in the dough again. Okay, Nora, I say. You're done. To which she responds with much screaming and "I wanna help!"

I feel bad, and George gets the kids set up with a Thomas DVD, and he supervises to make sure no more stray feet get themselves in the kitchen with stray hands that steal cookie dough. He informs me that her grabby hands are my fault because I sample cookie dough myself. Um, I know he did NOT just say that.

Cookies go to oven. Cookies come out of oven. Kids get their little treat. On to lunch.

I get it on the table, and George takes it from there. I can hear discontent happening out there, but I choose to ignore it. Dinner tonight is a crock pot thing, and if it's going to happen at all, it needs to happen now.

In the meantime, I'm trying valiantly to get dinner in the crock pot, which is a very simple recipe for spaghetti and meatballs. I get the ingredients out, but can't find the ground turkey. Where's the turkey? Oh, of course. In the freezer. Hey, it's happened to all of us, right? Whatever, minor inconvenience. I can still do this thing.

So, I forge ahead. I'm trying to salvage this situation by popping the turkey in the microwave on a defrost setting, when I hear several crashes and "Ohh....William...."

Apparently, William does not like his lunch. He screams, throws his spoon, and dumps his lunch on the floor. Awesome; thank you. George calls out to me to please take care of this. I respond by asking him how many freaking limbs and brains he thinks I have. He answers four and one respectively, and deals, then takes the kids upstairs.

William is still screaming his face off as I'm trying to assemble meatballs, and then Nora starts in, too, because no child should have to scream alone, to be sure. I am running behind. I turn quickly and squat to grab something out of a lower cabinet. Smack. I crack my head on the oven handle.

Mmfh! Okay, keep moving. It's this, or we have no dinner tonight. Hand clutching head, I grab an onion out of the fridge for mincing in the food processor.

I will insert here the fact that our food processor is the loudest I have ever heard in my life. It physically hurts my ears to stand next to it. Add to that one autistic child, who, although a whole floor away at this point, hears, feels, and smells everything equally regardless of distance...more screaming. No, not screaming. Pure hysteria. Like, the sorts of screams you might hear if I had thrown him out my bedroom window.

So I guess I wasn't thinking. Anyway. It's the most potent onion I've ever cut up. It's so bad, I can't even open my eyes. I have to stick my whole head in the freezer. And now the cold of the freezer is activating my cold. I'm, like, assembling meatballs, my nose is running and I'm pulling my head way back from the food and sniffling, sniffling, can't wipe my nose; I've got raw meat all over my hands. I can't see, I can't breathe, my whole face is wet, and my kids are upstairs screaming their poor little throats out. Mmm. Yes, life.

Finally. The meatballs are done, in the crock pot, they're simmering in my favorite marinara (after Mom's), and I'm like, you know what? I am going to do it. So I get out a spoon and dig out the remaining bit from the bottom of the jar.

Whoo. I must've gotten a bite of pepper. Yikes.

Another bite. My nose starts to run again. What the...?

I look at the label, which reads not "Marinara" but "Arrabiata."

I know it's a lot of non-events, but I swear on my blessed pasta sauce, I've gone insane.