Wednesday: It Was Rough

I woke up with sinus pressure and a nasty tickle at the back of my throat.  My bones felt too heavy for my body, and my muscles ached.

I knew I was getting a cold.

But it was my turn to get the girls to seminary, so I put on clean clothes and headed out the door.

The sun came out for the first time in 20 straight days, and I wanted to rejoice in it with my kids.  I contemplated hiking, using a freebie zoo coupon, heading to a newly renovated local park . . . and then I coughed and sneezed and felt my muscles yell at me.

Thursday was to be our final dance day of the semester--a full-costume, full-energy show for a local nursing home. The energy required to get through Thursday made an at-home day absolutely mandatory on Wednesday, so I put joy in my voice and sold the kids on an awesome morning of bike-riding in the driveway while I took turns calling them in for one-on-one school.

While I worked with Pixie on confusing Algebra 2 equations, the kids got themselves outside . . . and proceeded to dig into the mud . . . completely ignoring the giant mud space in the back yard that is completely their own and choosing to dig in the front yard where they are forbidden to dig.

But I was unaware of this at this point in the morning.

Suddenly Baymax was crying, and the rest of the kids were screaming for help.

I groaned my way out of my chair and found Baymax bleeding from his face from half a dozen puncture wounds inflicted by Belle's beloved Theo.

Our sweet Theo!?!?!?

Most of the wounds were clearly going to heal on their own, and I knew Theo's shots were up to date.  But I wasn't sure about the deepest puncture that was 1/4" from Baymax's eye, so I hurried him off to urgent care only to be told that he was too young to treat anywhere but at the children's hospital (seriously!?!) and that urgent care was forbidden to handle animal-inflicted injuries anyway.

By this time the bleeding was slowing sufficiently that I could see that a butterfly bandage would do fine near Baymax's eye, and a consult with Sir Walter Scott (he's a critical care nurse) via text message and phone conversation confirmed that.

All cleaned up and calm--I could see that he'd be fine.

I settled Baymax into Super Star's arms with a storybook and took Belle and Theo off to the vet for a consultation--what do we do with our family doggie now?

She immediately classified him as a "dangerous dog" and told us he was outside the realm of her expertise.  She reminded us he was a terrible liability (what if he hurt a neighbor or stranger next?) and referred us to an animal behavioralist.

Belle and I cried.

The stress and tension were simply too much for us.

I tried to get Belle to talk it out a bit, but she could barely answer me--the feelings were even too big for words.

I got two sentences out of her.

"I should have been there."

"I'm mad at Theo."

My heart ached for her spoken and unspoken words.  She's only 13.  Theo is her beloved, beloved baby.  She cares for, trains, and loves him with every fiber of her being.

Again, it is all too much.

 By the time we got home it was past lunch time, but Belle and I had stopped at the store for quick sandwich fixings, so we fed the crew.

But I discovered the digging damage to the front yard, and we had rather a long series of temper tantrums when I called the kids on their disobedience.

And then the mother of our little friend, the one we babysit on Saturdays, (I think I'll call her Sweet Pea) called me back because I felt obligated to tell her about our dog, so she could decide whether she wanted her child coming to our home on a regular basis.  I was just sick with worry, but she was kind and practical about the whole thing.  I'm pretty sure I'm old enough to be her mother, but she is wise beyond her years, and she said she had complete confidence in us and how we would protect her precious girl.

Then the behaviorist called and told us our consult with him would cost $160/hr!!!!

I scheduled an appointment because I didn't know what else to do, but I don't know if we can keep it.  There must be a more affordable answer.

I wanted to call the day a complete wash, but the teens do want to graduate from high school someday, so I organized things as usual for Symposium, but first Brother threw the granddaddy of all tantrums and had to spend quiet time on the front porch, then Lola threw the mother of all screaming fits which sent Rose Red into overload, and she stormed out of the room refusing to do any school at all.

When Lola fell asleep, I checked on quiet time for various kids and found that Ladybug was stealing again, so I took the stolen objects from her.

Then she managed to break half a dozen more house rules, which kept me constantly jumping.

I dismissed Symposium and sent the younger kids back outside to play, and, realizing they badly needed the reassurance of one-on-one time with Mom and some normalcy to their day, prepared to do that very thing.

That went fairly well until it was Ladybug's turn--she who clearly needed me the very most out of all of this--but when it was her turn I reminded her to go potty and wash her hands before coming to her school session.  This made her angry enough that when Lola followed her into the bathroom, she turned off the light and locked Lola into the dark bathroom.

Which effectively destroyed her chance to have one-on-one time with me.

By this time, 4:54 pm, both toddlers were whining wrecks.   Lola had had a nap, but I suspected she was fighting the same illness I was, so she needed loves and rest, and poor Baymax's face was swollen and probably hurting.  I dosed him up with children's pain meds, and poured 2 bowls of cold cereal for them.

Then I put out cold cereal and bananas for every one.

I begged help from the older girls to get the kids through their bedtime routines while I laid down just long enough to gather enough strength to tuck everyone in.

They did help . . . mostly.  But Brother and Beowulf were refusing to clean up the toys they were asked to put away, and Ladybug was teasing Little Princess to tears.  I got up and settled difficulties (none too pleasantly) and then when Beowulf and Brother would not let Belle help them get their baths, I intervened.

I should have walked away.

They ended up naked and wet (but wrapped in towels) in their time out spots on the porch.

This time the ugliness was my own fault.  They were just being little boys who had feelings and worries too big to understand.

It took me nearly an hour to work up the self-control to apologize to them for my actions.

But at least I did.

And I'm counting on the grace of my Savior to cover my wretchedness.

Rose Red took Pixie to dance.  I read stories and tucked everyone into bed with prayers, songs, and kisses.

My last words to Ladybug were, "Tomorrow is a brand new day with no mistakes in it."

It never stays true for long--the no mistakes in it part--but at least there's hope every single morning.