And by that I mean what the HELL was I thinking, on many occasions?
First of all, Caroline’s (bleeping) Brownie troop decided on a (bleeping) group trip to a (bleeping) amusement park today. I didn’t go to many as a kid (and have never stepped foot in Disney World) and don’t *love* amusement parks but enjoy them with the kids, so we said we’d go.
Even though the park is two hours away. Even though we need to wake up at 5 am tomorrow to go on our vacation. Even though we’re not packed.
(That’s “what the hell was I thinking” number one.)
So we get a late start but get about halfway there. When I remember I forgot the tickets. Which were part of the group sales so I can’t even prove I bought them so they can reprint them. Which means we have to turn around. Which means no one in the car will talk to me. (That’s “what the hell was I thinking” number two AND “how the hell could I be so stupid.”) (By the way, you’d already know this if you followed me on Twitter. I now love Twitter. And sometimes I say funny things on it.)
I let Jack go on a huge roller coaster with Caroline, Whit and Caroline's friend. I don't even think he knew he was going on it; he had his head down slurping an Icee and he just kept walking. Let's just say he is severely traumatized and tried to crawl in Whit's lap the whole time. (Number three. Really. What the hell was I thinking? He's scared of flies; how could I send him on a rickety roller coaster?? Dumb.)
Then the dog doesn’t get picked up by the kennel and is left out in our back yard for five hours (during which it thunderstorms) and I can’t answer the phone and tell the kennel people he’s in the back yard and they can take him because my stupid phone’s battery died because I was so busy texting so Caroline could find all her friends. (Yup, another “what the hell was I thinking.” Number three? Four? Even I lose count.)
So…we get home, deal with the dog’s PTSD, feed and bathe the children and start packing. It’s now almost ten p.m. And I realize that every time I’ve asked Caroline to come with me to get her hair cut, she’s said, “Not today.” But she looks like Rapunzel with really, really bad split ends. And now there’s no place to take her. So I decide I’m going to cut her hair. (That’s my last “what the hell was I thinking.” Because I’ve never cut hair before, unless you count twisting my bangs into a point and whacking at them with manicure scissors when I was in high school.)
Oh, that poor kid. I used my wrapping paper scissors, which are the only alternative to kiddie safety scissors and butcher knives in this house. I really tried to do it right. I’ve watched people cut my hair a zillion times. But I learned that a couple of clips scattered haphazardly over someone’s head does not make me a stylist. It looks like a rat chewed her hair. It’s not even, it’s not all actually cut (she got upset while there were still some long strands mixed in and I gave up) and, truth be told, it’s above her shoulders on the right side and below her shoulders on the left. She looks like Victoria Beckham if Victoria Beckham was a homeless person. A drunk homeless person.
Poor Caroline tried really hard to not be completely insulting, even though I clearly deserved it: “Mommy, it’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that it’s really short and it’s really not even and it doesn’t even go into a ponytail and it really won’t grow back very fast…” And, because I am a smart-ass, I just said, “Well, the next time I suggest we go somewhere to get your hair cut professionally, I suggest you just agree with me.”
Oh, good Lord, this day has just got to end. But it won’t. Ever. Until maybe 5 am. Because I have to do laundry and pack and marinate shrimp and maybe take an online course in how to cut hair. And maybe buy Caroline a headband or two. Then I’ll rest.