Today was day 2 in a series of 3 very long days. And I totally lost it.
We had baseball pictures this morning, one at 9:25, one at 10:25, Sullivan’s soccer game at 11:15 am and Brady’s soccer game at 4:30 pm. No worries, I plan ahead.
I took Brady for pictures first. I wanted to get one little picture with him and his cousin, second cousin actually. (Mark has so many cousins that I worked with one of them for several years before he called me one day and told me he was my cousin. “No,” I said, “I know all my cousins. You must be related to my husband.” And then Mark worked with his cousin’s wife for a few days before she told him that she thought her husband was his cousin. And Mark told me he was once in cubscouts with one of his cousins for a couple years before they realized they were related. So, it should be no surprise that one of Mark’s cousin’s daughters is, coincidentally, on Brady’s baseball team.) Brady was uncooperative, and pretty much always is when it comes to pictures.
Mark came up to the field and we exchanged kids around 10 am. I took one look at Sullivan and asked where his baseball hat was. Blank stares from both the husband and the child. My inner voice reminded me that this was not a big deal, not life or death, it does not REALLY matter if he is the only child in the team picture without a hat. As it turns out, Mark was able to get home, retrieve the wayward hat, and get back to the field just in time for pictures. So perhaps, while my inner voice was telling me it was not that big of a deal, my face must have looked like it was, in fact, that big of a deal.
“I don’t want to hold my glove or my bat!” Sullivan declared.
And he held neither. Not a battle worth fighting, I had decided.
Sullivan was wearing his shin guards under his baseball uniform, and I had the rest of the soccer uniform in the car, so that he could change in the car and make it to soccer on time.
“I don’t want to play soccer today,” he said.
“What?!?” I asked, confused.
Sullivan always wants to play soccer. But Sullivan went to bed an hour and half past bedtime last night and Sullivan looked like he was in one of those moods in which he would keep his feet planted in the ground, even if faced with a tornado. And he did.
I took him to the field and told him that maybe he would feel like playing once we got there. Nope. I told him I would take him out to a special lunch if he played. Nope. His coach tried to get him to play, his dad tried to get him to play. Nope and nope. So, we sat through the entire game with Sullivan sitting curled up next to my chair.
We came home and had lunch and I ordered everyone to bed, including myself. I woke up from my nap, inexplicably, more tired and cranky. I cooked bacon ahead of time, because by the time we would get home from Brady’s game, it would be pretty much dinner time. I had planned ahead on having sandwiches when we got home. I had bought ciabatta bread, and lunch meat, and bacon. We made a couple stops on the way home to pick up a bag of chips and hot dog buns.
I was thrilled to be home for the day and was preparing to get dinner on the table when I pulled the ciabatta bread from off the top of the refrigerator and discovered it had gone moldy in the 1.5 days since I had bought it. Last. Straw.
I raised the moldy ciabatta high over my head and spiked it with impressive force into the garbage can.
I must have scared my boys. All of them.
“Do you want me to run to Julian Brothers?” Mark asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t even think right now. Yes, fine, go to Julian Brothers.”
He went without another word.
First Brady, then Sullivan, then Colin came to me and wrapped their arms around me and we all stood in a group hug in the middle of the kitchen.
“I’m really sorry about your bread, Mom,” Brady said.
And just like that, my inner voice reminded me that this was not THAT big of a deal. And I remembered that I live with the best four guys in the whole wide world, and remain grateful for another day, though hectic, together.