Last Wednesday I was being an awesome wife and going to Dairy Queen to get my husband an ice cream cake. I walk in with my cute baby, all “la de da I’m a great wife and mother,” and I order my cake. I sort of think I hear God saying something from the clouds about pride and how it comes before a fall, but I’m not paying attention. Because uh oh, where’s my wallet? The one that’s connected to my keys? The one that I can’t find anywhere?
Oh yeah. It’s in the car, where I locked it. KEWL!
Not a problem, I am an awesome wife and mother and I can keep my cool in the midst of chaos. La de da! We have no extra key to this car (naturally), so I call the Pop-A-Lock peeps, and la de da! They are on their way. Only it takes an hour. And Baby needs a nap. And the nice DQ lady gives me free ice cream, which I give to baby out of desperation and in complete violation of all the Good Mom Rules I’d been keeping so well that day. Naturally, she loses her mind when there is no more ice cream (oops, Mommy accidentally ate all of it to stifle the feelings), so then I let her watch a video on my phone out of desperation and in complete violation of all the Good Mom Rules I’d been keeping so well that day. The Dairy Queen crowd is starting to feel badly for me, and they are asking what they can do, but no no, nothing they can do until Pop-A-Lock gets THEIR BOTTOMS TO THE DAIRY QUEEN! I am a good mom, and I no longer say “butts”! La de da!
Pop-A-Lock arrives and the nice man gets me into my car in exchange for 100 dollars. KEWL! I have no problem with this! I am a cool mom!
So finally I go pay for my cake. The cake that was supposed to be $30 but is now $130, no problem you know, BUT THIS CAKE BETTER BE DELICIOUS. And then on a whim I say “whatever give me a chicken sandwich and a cherry coke” because the ice cream only allowed me to eat about 25% of my feelings and there 75% more that needed to be dealt with.
On the ride home between bites of a chicken sandwich that seems a little iffy, I scream sing Alanis Morrisette, which is what I do when I’m angry (I never am! I’m a cool mom!) or when I do not want Baby to fall asleep in the car because we need this baby to take a REAL nap at home.
Good news, friends – Baby takes a great nap at home, and I sit on the couch, realizing once again that I am a really good wife and mother. High five to me! What’s that God? I cannot hear you because I feel funny. I remember the chicken sandwich. I hate that chicken sandwich. But I do not dwell on this because I am sixteen weeks pregnant, and interior babies (like exterior babies) make you feel funny things. La de da! I distract myself but eventually end up on the couch, staring into oblivion and chanting to myself “I do not feel funny,” “I do not feel funny.”
Do you know what’s coming? Because I didn’t, but retelling the story makes me feel really dumb.
Husband comes home because I have a dinner to get to. “I feel funny” I say, “but it’s okay.” “Cool,” says Husband. I sort of slump over on the couch for a while, and eventually I get my act together enough to get ready.
I like my outfit. I am cute! God says something but I cannot hear because I am in the car, and it’s Alanis time. It’s snowing! I have on my red coat! Things are good. Except I feel funny. Mind over matter. This internal baby, he is really doing a good job at making me feel funny.
Except it’s not the internal baby. (The internal baby’s name is Greer by the way. He is the coolest dude that anyone knows, and he can beat up your baby.)
No, no. Not Internal Baby. (Greer.) It’s the chicken sandwich.
I’m driving through blinding snow on the interstate, and suddenly: “SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT.”
And then I turn into the exorcist and in a sudden and violent excommunication my body rejects all of its internal organs with such ferocity that I start to think I’m morphing into a lion.
The next few minutes are very touch and go, as you would assume it would be when a human morphs into a lion while driving a Tahoe in the snow on the interstate.
Somehow I manage to get off the interstate, and I pull into a gas station, stunned. I am covered in an evil that shall not be named (Voldemort). Voldemort is in my hair, down my sleeves, in my boot, and in all the little window buttons.
It is a low point.
I call my husband, shaking, and he comes to get me.
I call my sister, because this is why one has sisters, and she advises me to NOT go inside the gas station to wash my hands/hair/coat/boots/entire body because “you probably look terrifying.” I look in the visor mirror and confirm this is the case.
I call husband again: “Bring cleaning supplies, and do not look me in the eye.”
It is a low point.
Husband gets there. I crack the window.
“Hand me the cleaning stuff and step away,” I say weakly.
“No, dummy,” he says. “I’m cleaning it up.”
As he cleans, we kind of laugh because this is BIG FAT AWFUL and OH MY GOSH and DAIRY QUEEN YOU ARE A LIFE RUINER. I stand in the parking lot trying not to scare any onlookers. In retrospect, I should have growled at them so that this story would have more punch.
When husband is done, I say, “I love you.” He says, “Um.” He is very grossed out. He is a good man.
So the rest of the night is awful, and eventually it is declared food poisoning. (Duh.) Sorry for thinking you were poisoning me, Interior Baby Greer. It is not your fault, and I love you so much.
The next day, Exterior Baby magically catches on, and she behaves perfectly, just sitting on the couch with me and smiling, her in pink striped pajamas and me in pink polka dot pajamas. She is the coolest.
Later that week, Luke goes to pick up his ice cream cake, and they say they don’t have any record of it.
(They found it ten minutes later, but that’s a much less dramatic ending, isn’t it?)
In conclusion, last Wednesday was not a good day.
Happy birthday, Husband.
Happy birthday, Husband.