When a carton of milk brings you to your knees

Wednesday was a good day. I had reliable childcare, I got a lot done, my hair looked all right, and Dude pooped. Twice.

A Red Letter Day, I tell you.

But then I got home, and it went from red letter to scarlet letter - and I didn't even get laid.

One minute everything was cool, and the next minute.....well, the next minute things were surreal. As though I had been operating in a bubble and the bubble burst. Life was coming at me loud and fast and bright. How was I going to manage it all? What had I been thinking? Had I been charging forward blythely signing up for every damn thing in my path? Did I have no concept of limits? DID I EVEN KNOW WHAT DAY IT WAS?

Interesting question, that.

Did you know this weekend was a holiday weekend?

I didn't. I remembered at about 5pm, and the shock of it threw me for a loop. I love me some long holiday weekends. I keep close tabs on these sorts of things. How could I have forgotten?

I have my suspicions.

Dude cries every day from about 3 until about 8 - inconsolable sadness. We walk and bounce and switch shoulders and sing and talk and yet.
But still.
Oh, he is sad.

And in the midst of the sadness and the pacing yesterday, I was running through our plans for the weekend in my head to distract myself from the utter misery in my arms - misery which makes my heart ache - and suddenly it all just started sliding into place click click click and I realized something at that very moment.

I had only *thought* I had a handle on things. In truth, I have no idea what is going on.

Holiday weekend. Off on Monday. Five days off in a row. No school on Monday, either. Huh. How could I have missed that?

And if I only just now realized that I had a 5 day weekend and the kids had vacation, what else was I not remembering?

At that point, my previously fantastic afternoon turned into me pacing the living room with Dude in the carrier, trying to figure out my schedule and take note of everything that I had committed to recently. Field trips, shows, work, more work, oh fuck the mortgage is due, oh fuck we're overdrawn again, cancel appointments for everything that costs money, and then WHAT DO YOU MEAN I AM IN A PARADE ON SATURDAY hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat down on the floor and rocked back and forth (to soothe the baby, not for my mental health THANKYOUVERYMUCH) trying to decide if our parade costumes - which consist of kitchen towels and bathrobes - would offend anyone.

Because it was absolutely too late to do anything at all about it.

I reassured myself with the knowledge that at that very moment, everything was fine. No panic attack required, thanks. Max was writing a report. Lucy had a friend over to play, I had the fixings for dinner and the laundry was drying on the line - we were just rolling right along.  I had this.

Everything is cool, man.

And then, an innocent question: "Mom, can I have some milk?"

Of course. OF COURSE YOU CAN. So I open the fridge and stand there staring and realize we are out of milk.

Now on any other day, that would not be a problem.
But on this particular day, it was an INSURMOUNTABLE PROBLEM.
It was a symptom of a much bigger problem that was just coming to the surface.

In five minutes I went from the mom who was large and in charge, kicking ass and taking names and working outside the home while still putting a home cooked meal on the table each night........to a mom who doesn't know when her kids have vacation, and cannot manage to keep basic staples in the house.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

While we are home enjoying our surprise (for some of us) holiday weekend, or working and hopefully earning overtime, please keep Dude and his mom in your thoughts.

Dude is right here with me, cooing and gurgling and chubby and smiley.
Dude's mom is in detox.

She is doing this for him. She is doing this for herself. She is doing this. And I am sending her all of the love and positive thoughts I have in my heart.

Suddenly, forgetting to buy milk seems totally unimportant. As it should be.

But my crotch looks amazing

Friday was my birthday.

I'm gonna be honest - I wasn't feeling it. The baby had been up repeatedly, all night long. I had appointments and obligations - none of them involving a massage or a pedicure. Which was unfortunate. And my hair looked like crap. A perfectly good day can go right down the toilet when my hair looks like crap.

What. Don't judge me. I have hair related issues.

Moving on.

So I was awake early, and overtired, and rushing around, and the hair with the crap-looking, and the appointments to get to. Happy birthday to nobody, that's who.

I stopped in to the office - it was supposed to be a quick visit which turned into a full-blown intervention with a crazy who was also having a seriously bad hair day. I felt for her, on so many levels, but when she started crying and trying to pass out food from a greasy, crumpled bag she had pulled out of the bottom of her purse, something in me just snapped. An OCD something. The only thought that I could process was that she had to be escorted out of the office with her garbage bag of clothing RIGHT AWAY.
And then retrieved from the bathroom where she was busily upending the trash can looking for cigarettes and talking to herself.
I finally talked her into a cab to the hospital.
She also needed a trip to the salon, but you know - priorities.

Now running late for the rest of my life, I raced across town to have all of the hair ripped off of my crotch because nothing says happy birthday like that, boy howdy.

And then I hobbled into Walmart. I will stop right now and tell you that you should never, ever, ever go to Walmart on your birthday. Or on a bad hair day. It smells funny and the lighting is terrible and even though you know you still look better then 95% of the other customers because your boobs aren't tucked into your pants, you feel like cheap dirty imported crap afterwards.

I got home and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror - something I do about once every 3 or 4 days basically to assess how badly I need a shampoo, or to check my shirt for baby spit up. And it was clear that I needed a lot more than a shampoo and a clean shirt. I called the salon down the street and asked if they could do a quick trim. 30 minutes later I was back home, with a bad haircut and an even worse attitude. I looked like I had cut it myself with kitchen shears, missing a few key spots along the way. I am not good at explaining things to stylists, but I am pretty sure "refugee" was not the look I had described.

Now I was in a really terrible mood. Hair grows back, but the attitude needed to be adjusted pronto.

At about that time, it occured to me that it was getting close to dinner, and not a single one of my relatives had called yet to wish me a Happy Birthday. I wasn't too concerned - I forget to call people on their birthdays sometims, and I concluded that perhaps they were going to call me at bedtime - at least my mom would. Surely my own mother would call to say happy birthday to her firstborn! Her only daughter!

Which reminds me: Cake.

My mother is the birthday cake hook up. And thinking of my mother, and then of cake, reminded me that I had not caught wind of a cake - a fact that was now causing me no small amount of concern. My haircut was forgotten in the pursuit of cake. Phonecalls from family are not mandatory, and I don't need presents, but damned if I am going to go through my birthday without some sort of cake.

And leftover cake.

Which might be the most important part of the cake.

WHERE WAS MY CAKE?

But wait! Maybe the cake was going to be served at dinner! We were going out, I reassured myself. Surely, he will have cake for me at dinner! I got dressed in the new dress I bought last week.

Heading out the door, I reached over to grab something off the kitchen counter and the dress fell down.

Houston, we have a problem.

Undeterred, I grabbed a brooch, pinned that sucker tight, and kept going. As I climbed in the car, it fell down again. This was a theme of the evening. It turns out that a backless dress needs to have a pretty significant amount of structure in order to not fall off. This dress was knit. And sleeveless. And shapeless.

I was screwed.

The best course of action was to begin drinking. And I was given a tiara which covered up the chopped hair nicely. And a lei which helped to keep the dress up. And I spent the evening with my friends, laughing and eating and drinking and singing. I got gifts and cards and hugs and cheers. I got a shout-out from the band and a bacon milk shake. And I went to bed tired and happy.

I didn't get any cake, and my family never did call that day, and the hair really is pretty bad.

But my crotch looks amazing.

I guess you'll just have to trust me on that.