I Think My “Survival Mode” is Broken!

But never mind, because I get it out there in time. The boy and I make it inside and collapse on the couch. When I’ve recovered from my near-death experience, I turn on “Jake and the Never Land Pirates” and get the box of Cheerios off the table. No, I don’t usually let the toddler eat straight from the box on the couch, but it’s been a rough morning. I have an hour before I have to leave to take my son to a Mommy and Me class. I could take a shower or remain completely stationary for half an hour.

It’s obvious I made the wrong choice when, 45 minutes later, I nearly suck a Cheerio down my windpipe that the boy menace put in my mouth while I was sleeping. I sit up, coughing and shedding Cheerios. I am still in my bathrobe and the boy is wearing nothing but Cowboy boots and a pacifier. And the class is 30 plus miles away. It’s run like the wind time again.

Arrive at the Mommy and Me class 15 minutes late and gasping for breath. Do not make eye contact with all the other moms, mostly military, probably also with absentee husbands, who made it here on time.

After class, contemplate going on base to the MCX and Commissary since I’m in town, then realize that my DoD decal expired last month and the renewal my husband kept meaning to get for me? Yeah. Not here. And while my military ID is current, I don’t really want to take the chance that the Marines posted at the main gate will do a car search. Biological warfare could probably be waged with the specimen currently residing in the backseat: stinky cleats, chocolate milk boxes going on their third week in the cup holders, gooey goldfish, and the lingering smell of vomit, even though I washed my son’s seat cover after he threw up last week. Wait, did I? And that’s not all: head injuries are waiting to happen from beach chairs, softball gear, and strollers that will hemorrhage out the back if they open the trunk.

Opt for the grocery store on the way home instead. Have just enough time to feed the boy lunch and get the groceries put up before I have to pick the girls up from school.

Consider that this might be the time that “Survival Mode” doesn’t kick in as I plunder the depths of my brain for a Bob Ross kind of happy place to go to while I help my 8-year-old with her math homework. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve explained ordinal numbers and rounding to her or how many I’ve caught her craning her neck to see the “Bubble Guppies” episode the younger two are watching in the den. If it’s the one with the Lady Gaga song in it, I’ve lost all hope of getting through to her. I wish I could float away on a happy little cloud right now. Forever.

Ignore the girls’ outraged claims that chicken nuggets and mandarin oranges are no longer the “special treat” for supper when Daddy’s not home that I convinced them it was years ago. Justify it with if it eliminates my need to cook, it is still a special treat.

Stand at the back door and make big sweeping motions with my arm as the girls scramble to get softball socks and cleats on. Get to practice and spend the next two hours chasing the boy out of the dugout, off the field, away from the road. Decide that this absolutely counts as a workout on the Wii Fit Challenge I set up three weeks ago and then never started.

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