It’s one of those nights.
All three kids are fighting bedtime. Ren swears that she is sick and finally I take her temp to prove her wrong and oh, wow, she has a fever. Fab. Now she wants soup and pedialyte and I tell her NO NO NO GO TO BED.
My attempts to get moving on laundry have left me a house cluttered with piles of clothes. The Great Cheerio Spill of this morning has been swept into a corner where it sits, next to the broom, taunting me to JUST SWEEP IT INTO THE PAN ALREADY.
Edeny won’t sit in her freaking seat. I am trying very hard to grill fish for Cute Husband’s and my dinner. And where the hell is that guy, anyway?
And then, in the space of five minutes, the following things happen:
I hear a great “whack” followed by hyterical baby sobs. Eden has fallen out of her freaking seat.
Flames errupt from the grill.
Mary comes downstairs to tell me “Ren-put-her-Sleeping-Beauty-pen-in-the-light-and-then-the-light-went-off.”
And it occurs to me that the phone has been ringing and I haven’t even looked to see who’s calling. Maybe Cute Husband is in trouble. Maybe he’s hurt. He’s over two hours late.
I suddenly feel Not Safe. Not Safe All Over. This happens to me sometimes — particularly after times of great stress — and the only thing to do is screw up my big girl panties and get in there.
“Mare — is Ren in any kind of pain or injury?”
“No, she seems –”
“Stay with the baby. REN LEAVE THE BEDROOM AND COME DOWNSTAIRS RIGHT NOW.”
I place screaming Eden on the floor and take a pan of water and oven mitts out to the grill. The cedar planks are aflame, and not just a little. Grease and debris at the bottom of the grill has ignited. I lift the fish off the charred planks (oh please come on, you didn’t think I wasn’t going to save the fish, did you?), use tongs, drop the planks into the pan, drop the lid on the grill, step back and consider. The lid seems to be smothering the flames.
Fine. One down.
I run up to the girls’ room. The lights are off.
“Where did she put the pen, Mare?” I shout down to the kitchen.
“In my light.”
Okay, that’s much better. That’s not an outlet. And then I snicker. The bulb probably just went out right at that moment and scared the bejeezus out of that little shit.
I change the bulb and sure enough, we’re okay.
“Come out,” I say to Ren, who is hiding behind the living room curtain.
“I nevah evah eveah do dat again Momma, for real I promise.”
“Yeah, whatever, do you understand the problem?” I run through the rules on Outlets, Lights and NOT STICKING PENS ANYWHERE.
“Fine,” I say. “Upstairs.”
I turn to Shrieking Eden. Poor little thing. I pick her up and rock her and replay the audio from the fall in my mind. I didn’t hear the hard “crack” of a head. Just the soft “thump” of a body. Extreme caution would be go to the ER. I rub her head. She’s all happy now. Okay, okay.
Not Safe recedes.
Where the Hell is Cute Husband?
“MOMMA REN HAS DIARRHEA!! ALL OVER! I MEAN, LIKE… IT’S EVERYWHERE!!!”
Screaming Eden back on the floor and up to the bathroom. Oh. GOD.
I roll up my sleeves, grab the Lysol, paper towels and Nasty Sponge and get in there.
I have not had a chance to check caller i.d. on the phone and am starting to really wonder where the hell Cute Husband got off to. He’s either dead, or he’s going to wish he were.
“HEEEEEEY!!!” he says, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. He is holding a large bouquet of flowers.
Cannot. Scream. Cannot be shrill. Cannot tell him to take those mo-fo flowers and –
“Hey!” I say.
Ren is naked in the tub and I’m pouring water trying not to gag.
“HEY RENNY!!” he shouts.
Honest to shit like I need you riling them up right now, too?
Renny waves happily.
“I brought flowers for my girls!!” he says. They squeal.
Like we freaking need flowers.
I scrub, I Lysol. The kids go to bed. I poke at the fish. Smells good. Smokey.
“Check this out,” Cute Husband says.
He hands me a business card. With the Seal of the Great State of Interestingland engraved in bright colors in the corner.
“Er?” I ask. Peering at me over the card, his eyes are all lighted up.
“I GOT MORE!”
“I don’t understand.”
“I CRASHED A PARTY DOWNTOWN FOR THE GRAND IMPERIAL POOH BAH OF INTERESTINGLAND*!!”
“Why would you do that?”
“I chatted with him.”
“How the hell did you get in there?”
“I was wearing a suit.”
“You were wearing a suit.”
“YES!! Check out all my business cards! Look at them!”
He pulls out a fan of cards with all sorts of national seals and shiny emblems.
I. Was cleaning shit and fighting flames.
You were drinking Chardonnay with world leaders.
His face, all lighted up and boyish.
“How in the hell did you do that??” I ask and he grins.
“Okay,” he begins. “So I’m coming out of the court house downtown when I notice … so I decide, what the hell? — Let’s see where this goes … and then the next thing I know …”
I plate the trout on garlicky cous cous. I marvel at the business cards. We eat and drink fizzy water and tell each other all the things we forgot to mention and before I know it, it’s 2 a.m. and we’re giggling like girls at a slumber party and all I can think is that I have to be up with the kids in five hours.
And it was totally worth it.
*Names changed to protect the guilty.
