So, let me set the stage: It’s been a wild ride in our household. Remy had his four-month check-up on Friday and ended up with a fever and a case of the poops. Meanwhile, our little adventurer Theodore, aka Teddy, was grumpy because of what we thought were teething issues. Turns out, the real culprit was him jamming his Stanley straw a bit too far into his gums—yikes!
In the midst of all this, my husband informs me he wants to hit up Dirtbags with his friends after we’ve completed his homework for his classes. I gave him the green light but with a condition: we’re cleaning up before heading out. Priorities, right?
While attempting to feed my four-month-old, Teddy decides it’s time to channel his inner sprinkler system by grabbing his straw and whipping it around. Water everywhere, I’m getting drenched, and so is Remy, who’s giving him a “really, dude?” look. Teddy finds this hilarious until I break out the “stern mom” voice, which instantly activates the tear ducts. He points to a scrape on his leg—leftover from his latest gravity experiment—and demands a healing kiss. So, I shift Remy to one side, letting Ted slide onto my lap with his treasured blanket in tow.
Meanwhile, my husband is the MVP, tidying the kitchen and sprucing up the house while I’m in the thick of our domestic circus performance. We somehow manage to shower, get dressed, pack snacks, fill bottles with water, change diapers, and strap the kids into car seats before finally making our grand escape.
Once we arrive, Teddy sprints towards the distant playground, which kicks off the “toddler chase” event of the day. In the chaos, Remy decides it’s feeding time, so there I am at a picnic table with my own version of a food truck, trying to breastfeed discreetly. Now, let me clarify: I used to be one of those people who’d comment, “Oh my gosh, that lady is breastfeeding in public.” And now, here I am—a card-carrying member of the titty-slinger club. Oh, how the tables have turned!
We stayed until 8 p.m., which was way later than necessary. During that time, Ted managed to escape from us four times while we were trying to chat with friends. I had to feed Remy three times, field sticky hands from kids holding suckers, and thwart my son’s attempts to make friends with strangers’ dogs—by grabbing their faces! Not to mention, a lawn chair and an outdoor table barely survived his rampage. Meanwhile, the other moms and I were trying to converse about our adventurous past and dream vacations, all while the kids screamed and ran around like we were extras in a chaotic comedy film.
The guys, of course, just kicked back with their beers as if Shelby and I weren’t starring in a live-action circus, with the babies as ringleaders. Honestly, there should be a societal rule that if you see a mom with kids in public, you automatically give her kudos. Seriously, the survival of every outing is nothing short of magical.
When we finally convinced the husbands it was time to leave, our kids were already screaming in their car seats. That’s when I remembered we needed milk and diapers. So, naturally, I turned to my husband, who agreed to run into the store. Twenty minutes later, I’m still in the parking lot with two crying kids, while passersby give me that “Wow, that lady looks crazy” look—not realizing I feel every bit as crazy as I look, LOL.
When my husband finally returned, smiling from ear to ear, he cheerfully announced, “I got cookies too!” I just stared at him, thinking, “Really? You took extra time for cookies?” If looks could sigh, mine certainly did.
You’d think my saga ended there, but oh no, it just kept going. I’m starting to believe I’m a glutton for punishment. After getting thoroughly soaked in North Carolina’s humid evening weather and slathered with bug spray, I decided to shower the boys and myself. Given the late hour, my husband stayed downstairs to feed and cuddle the dogs, who’d been cooped up in their kennels all day.
Ted and I were up first. I managed to bathe him and keep him entertained—score one for Mom! This gave me the false confidence that I could quickly grab Remy, who was mid-scream, and rinse him off too. So, I hopped out of the shower, scooped up Remy, and jumped back in, leaving Ted occupied with his toys. Holding onto a slippery Remy, I managed to wash him without either of us meeting the shower floor head-on.
Then I called out for my husband—silence. I tried four more times with the same result. Realizing I was on my own, I went into problem-solving mode: I held Remy with one hand, tossed a towel on the floor, laid him on it, and finished up myself. Then I grabbed Remy, sprinted to the room to diaper him while drying him en route. Just as I think I’ve pulled it off, here’s Ted, hollering “maaaaammmmmm!” I mutter my go-to mantra, “I can do this, I can do this,” and set Remy in his crib, then dash to collect Ted. After drying and diapering him, I quickly toss on T-shirts for both before shutting off the shower.
By the time I hand Ted his bottle my husband strolls in. He’s all, “Dang, why are you so mad?” I inform him that I was practically singing his name, and he replies, “Oh, I didn’t hear you, but the boys look fine.” I’m standing there, still wet and naked, thinking, “Really? Of course, they’re fine now.”
Sometimes, I swear I live in an alternate universe where I’m the only one who truly sees the chaos. I throw on clothes, grab Remy, tuck Ted next to his dad, and put on his favorite movie, Sing, to settle them down. My husband heads back downstairs for his cookies and a glass of water—because priorities, obviously. Ah, the perfect end to another perfectly chaotic day.
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