In Which I Had the Most Amazingly Horrible Day in Recent Record

Upon coming to the end of this day, I had a strikingly overwhelming urge to drink myself into utter oblivion. Much to my chagrin, the adult in me rose up and deemed such behavior a bad idea, considering I will have to get up to feed Too in approximately six hours and greet our moving buddies again in about 10 hours. The feeding part is really what got me, because if the four men that graced my front step at 8:00 a.m. this morning weren't scared off by how I looked then, surely nothing could prevent them from doing their jobs. 

Along that same vein, allow me to give you but a glimpse of the truly amazing day I had.

2:30 a.m. - Too, who is teething, wakes me up cheerfully requesting some foods. Upon entering her room, I am greeted by the sick, sour smell of rotting diaper. Yes. She has the teething poops. I thereupon endeavor to change her now rancid diaper. She responds by screaming loud enough to wake up Lils in the next bedroom. Fantastic. I feed Too a whole two ounces before she proceeds to pass out. Thanks for making it worth my time. 

5:45 a.m. - See above. 

7:30 a.m. - Too awakens. Thus begins my day. What joy is mine. 

7:50 a.m. - I lie in bed. Let me further preface this by saying that I turned on the heat last night because I knew that the temperature was going to drop below 45 degrees, and I didn't want to die freezing in my bed. Sadly, I neglected to change the filters, creating what can only be described as a disturbing burning smell, which then set off the smoke detectors. Couple this happy sound with Too's continued wailing and you have my final warning to vacate my bed. 

8:05 a.m. - Four decidedly non-bearded men show up at my front door. I flash them my most winning "No, I did not sleep well last night, but thanks for noticing" smile and beckon them into my home. I offer coffee in hopes that this simple gesture will in some way delete that first mental picture they took of me... 

8:05 a.m. - 11:45 a.m. - Said strange men go about the business of packing up our things. I would like to say that this process went smoothly and easily. It did not. I don't know if any of you have ever had a moving company actually come in and pack up your things for you, but damn. These guys are deceptively quick. They were about half way through packing when I realized that there were actually things I might need between today and tomorrow. Clothes for my children. Underwear. My razor. Non-perishable food items. Diapers. Wine. The microwave. My coffeepot. It never really occurred to me that they might remove our clothes from our drawers. In fact, we were explicitly told that they would not. False. By the time I actually realized that I'd have to clothe myself tomorrow, all of my things had been packed. They will, therefore, greet me tomorrow in the same black yoga pants I graced them with today. Lucky them. My children will be slightly better dressed, as I managed to grab a few things for them before the frenzied movers completed their packing. We will be eating leftover rotisserie chicken and the remaining pilfered hotel yogurt tomorrow for breakfast, a meal which I am thoroughly anticipating. 

10:30 a.m. - I go to make another pot of coffee only to find that Tony has packed my coffee filters. At which point I nearly lose my mind. I think the words that actually came out of my mouth upon learning that he had packed both the filters and the good coffee were something along the lines of "I will murder you and your children if you don't find them between now and tomorrow morning." He produces filters and coffee.

11:45 a.m. - Movers go to lunch, and Lils and I feast on the only thing left in the house: cheese and whale crackers. Filling and nutritious.

12:45 p.m. - 1:45 p.m. - During which time Too farts so loudly that I have a difficult time persuading moving men that it was indeed said barely four-month-old child who uttered such a man-sized fart. Ten points for volume and duration. It is also during this time that one of the movers informs me that my eldest child is halfway down the street and seemingly playing in someone's trash. The fun never ends. 

1:45 p.m. - Movers leave. Hallelujah.

1:46 p.m. - I receive call from second moving group, who informs me that they are on the way to take down my T.V. and unhook my washer and dryer, the latter of which died a slow, painful death just yesterday.

2:00 p.m. - Second group of strange men arrives to take down T.V., which was supposed to be taken down prior to their arrival. My bad. I simply couldn't live without it this morning. Strange men dismount T.V. and box it up. 

2:45 p.m. - Strange men leave, at which time we also depart to run some errands. 

2:50 p.m. - I receive call from strange group of men #2 telling me I may owe them $100. Why? Because they had to take down T.V. from wall. Ball. Sack. We eventually create fictional story in which T.V. was taken down from the wall prior to their arrival. The end.

3:10 p.m. - We arrive at children's consignment store so I can grab some clothes for my children who would otherwise be naked for the duration of the fall and winter months due to lack of proper attire. 

4:45 p.m. - We exit consignment store with $50 less than we came with. (And yes. I spent over an hour and a half in that store. Don't judge.)

4:46 p.m. - I discover that eldest child has conveniently neglected to mention that she had to go potty in said consignment store, and has proceeded to pee in pants. At this juncture, I do what any other parent would do in this particular situation: I strip her down in the parking lot, put her in recently purchased dress, and squeeze her into one of her sister's size 2 diapers. I can't make this stuff up, kids. 

5:00 p.m. - I drive like a crazed lunatic to Trader Joe's and have no shame in buying six bottles of wine upon learning that Franklin, our soon-to-be home has. no. liquor. store. (I want to take this present opportunity to thank my husband again for dragging me to what I am certain will be the most depressing county in all of Kentucky.) 

5:15 p.m. - 6:00 p.m. - We eat a relatively quiet dinner at our friendly neighborhood Chick-Fil-A. I let Lilly play in the play place, even though I know that by doing this, she is flashing a too-small diaper every time she climbs up anything. I choose to avoid other mothers, who I am convinced are silently judging what they perceive to be my drastic inability to potty train.

6:15 p.m. - We make it to our last stop of the day, Meijer, to grab bedtime pull-ups and baby formula. Lilly decides to bring in her pink "pack-pack." We buy our stuff and exit the store. 

6:25 p.m. - Upon making it into our car and half way home, I hear Lilly ask from the back seat, "Where is my pink pack-pack?" At which time we make a u-turn on Nicholasville Road and drive back to Meijer in search of pink pack-pack. I spend a solid 15 minutes admonishing my three-year-old for not being responsible with her things and prepping her for the fact that some other small girl is probably at home right now drying her hair with her pink Disney princesses hair dryer. 

6:35 p.m. - We find pink pack-pack right where she left it:

The pink pack-pack in question.

7:00 p.m. - We are two minutes from home when I realize that I have no coffee creamer for my coffee tomorrow. Since this cannot be, I make a hasty trip into the nearest store I can find, namely a CVS. They have no creamer. Kill. Me.

7:02 p.m. - I decide that my best chance of finding creamer is at a gas station, so I purchase smallest cup of coffee and grab a hearty handful of French Vanilla creamer. I have no pride at this point and convince myself that the cashier gives that nasty look to all of his patrons. 

7:05 p.m. - I arrive home only to discover that movers have packed up not only my Truvia but also every other ounce of sugar, white or otherwise, in the house. This is not my life. 

9:50 p.m. - After cleaning both children, both bathrooms, and getting both girls in bed, I have well-deserved glass of wine and mentally prepare myself for what I am sure will be an equally awesome day tomorrow. 

There was one bright spot in this otherwise heinous day: Too rolled over from her tummy to her back for the first time.

J.