Crazy Mom Typing

You know how you're supposed to get seven to eight hours of sleep a night? Yeah, I think over the last two or three nights I've maybe totaled that, and I am teetering close to Mombie status. The reason is that Lily is teething and sleeping like crap, and when Lily sleeps poorly, so do I. Unlike my husband, who I swear could sleep through the zombie apocalypse, I hear everything.

Sunday night I came home from the play and crashed for about an hour, which was a big mistake, as I was then wide awake until about 1 a.m. ... at which point Lily started up for the night. Got her back to bed about 2 or 3, and the older girls woke up at 5 or 6 for the day. It was quite similar last night, minus the nap but adding more wake ups from Miss Lily.

I tell you all this not to garner sympathy but to provide you some context for my absolutely stupid behavior this morning.

Around 7:30 I remembered that Mary is supposed to bring six or seven pictures of herself, from baby until now, for a "growing up" book they're working on. Like most of today's parents, I own very few hard copies of photos. So I selected a few files, went to the local chain drug store's web site, placed a print order for same day pick up and called it good. Got the e-mail they were ready, and planned to pick them up on the way to school.

Between 7:30 and 9:30 Lily decided she was overtired but was certainly not going to nap, was hungry but was certainly not going to nurse, but was decidedly going to let me (and the entire neighborhood) know just how livid she was about the whole thing. I was stressed, overtired, and near hysterical (as my poor husband and mother in law can attest, as they got stuck with me on the phone) as I put the kids in the car. I was also feeling like a failure, as the letter of the day was "O" and I could think of nothing to send with Mary for show and tell. I tried to cut out an octagon and failed. Halfway to school I realized that oval also starts with O and is a heck of a lot easier to draw on the fly. Oh well.

"It's okay, Mommy," Mary said. "My teacher always brings extra show and tells for the kids who forget."

"Glad to hear it, Mary, because today you're that kid," I said.

Get to the drugstore, the clerk seems confused about my print order but finds it by the register. Seven prints, a buck and change, and I herd all three kids back into the car, explaining on the way how we are not there to buy jelly beans, junky toys or nail polish. Get into the car, realize only four prints were in there, and none of them are of newborn baby Mary, just toddler Mary. Which kind of defeats the purpose.

Back into the store. The clerk seems confused again.

"I paid for seven prints," I said. "There are four in here." The clerk slowly (did I mention we're running late) counts the prints.

"Oh," she said. I count to ten. Slowly.

"Right," I said. "And it's for a project and I need the other ones." Clerk tries to say only four printed. I show her the slip that says seven printed. I ask for the prints. She looks around. Slowly. She goes to the kiosks and tries to bring up my order. Slowly.

She turns to look at me (slowly). She starts to head back to the kiosks. At this point I've determined that someone has probably taken the other pictures. (Hello, crazy.)

"I'm running late," I say, and I feel tears springing to my eyes, which pisses me off even more, because I hate crying and I hate crying in public the most. My best friends have maybe seen me cry once or twice in all the years I've known them because I don't do that. Call it a personal hangup.

"Oh," she said. "That's too-"

"AND SO SOME CREEPER PROBABLY HAS THREE PICTURES OF MY BABY," I snap far too loudly for 10 a.m., run out of the store without my refund, and immediately burst into tears. The clerk and the manger watch me leave. Slowly.


Get to school, realize picture due date is Thursday. When Mary won't be there anyway because she has an appointment to - HAHA - get her pictures taken.

Sorry, Tim, it looks like until we move north, you're going to have to pick up all of our prescriptions, because you married a psycho.

I'll be waiting for my Mother of the Year award any time now.