An ode to the classic. Mom style.
I went to sleep with a Transformers action figure poking into my back, and now there’s a pain in my spine. And when I got out of bed this morning, I realized my three year old was wedged between my husband and me, and I don’t even remember when he came to our room. My baby woke up at 5:00 a.m., I forgot to transfer the laundry from the washer to the dryer, and now it smells like mold. I was running 15 minutes late already, and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
At breakfast, my preschooler refused the oatmeal I made him, and my baby’s shirt . . . pants . . . socks . . . and hair ate all her oatmeal instead. When my husband changed her, he picked the shirt and shorts at the top of the drawer, and now my baby looks like she’s walking in an avant-garde collection at New York fashion week.
I think I’ll move to Austin.
In the car, my preschooler took off his shoes immediately and wiggled his arm out of the carseat restraint, so I had to pull over. I smelled something stinky and looked back to find my baby covered in . . . you know. And now, I know how to completely disassemble and wash the new convertible carseat.
I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
At daycare drop-off, I realized I forgot to bring more wipes. Again. And my preschooler screamed, “Don’t go to work, Mommy!!!!! I want to go with you!!!!” That, and my son refused his second breakfast. Who needs breakfast? I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
I could tell because I got stuck in traffic on the way to work. And Starbucks ran out of my favorite breakfast sandwich. And my boss sent me like, 100 emails. And when I went to the meeting that should have been an email, I thought, I hope the next time I get an email, the address gets mixed up and it arrives in an inbox in Austin.
There were donuts in the break room at lunch on the day I decided I’m not eating donuts anymore. And the salad I brought expired two days before and looked kind of depressed. Like it just gave up on freshness. And I forgot my spoon, so ate yogurt with a fork.
It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
That’s what it was because after work I went to pick up the kids and the baby had bitten a classmate. I had to sign an incident report, which is the daycare equivalent of getting sent to the principal’s office. My preschooler was still missing his shoes and insisted that shoes were stupid, and then we had a talk about the word stupid.
No one says stupid in Austin.
At dinner time, I fed my kids frozen peas because I was too tired to heat them. My baby’s shirt . . . pants . . . socks . . . and hair ate all her mashed potatoes, and I had to bathe her while the preschooler made some sort of suspicious noise doing some sort of suspicious activity in the adjacent room. I was right to be suspicious. When baby and I came out of the bathroom, my preschooler was two and a half popsicles deep into the sugariest night of his life, and the freezer door was wide open.
“I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day,” I told everybody. No one even answered. Actually, my husband answered the phone to say he was running late and could I put the kids down by myself tonight.
When I was putting down the baby, my preschooler used his inborn, cell-phone tracking instinct to find the phone I hid in a secret pocket in my purse. He is now covered in eye shadow and mascara. I said not to press buttons on my phone, but I think he emergency-called Austin.
It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
There were undercooked onions in the leftovers I made for dinner, and I hate crunchy onions. There was Paw Patrol on the TV, and I hate Paw Patrol. Actually, that’s a lie. I like Rubble.
My kid’s bath was too hot, he peed in the tub, and he refused to wear his last clean set of pajamas. He hates wearing pajamas.
When I went to bed, my baby started crying on the monitor, and she reacted like I was trying to murder her when I busted out the Nose Frida on her congestion. My son wants to sleep with me, not in his big boy bed.
It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
I called my mom because I’m on the verge of hiding from my own children in the bathroom. My mom says some days are like that.
Even in Austin.
Hang in there, great mamas!
