The Kind Of Day That Warrants Four Letter Words and Alcohol Before 10am.

Yesterday was one of those days. You know what kind of day I'm talking about. Specifically the kind of day that has you muttering four letter words and yearning for a stiff drink all before 10am. I hate yesterday and I'm so glad that today is today. 

Let's rewind, shall we?

The day started when I had to wake up at an ungodly hour to shower before getting Mac ready for his 9am pediatrician appointment. It's one thing to walk around my house looking like a homeless vagrant but its another to bring your kid to the pediatrician looking like you belong on a commercial with Sara McLaughlin singing melancholy songs in the background. 

By the grace of God I'm finally on the board somewhere between Ragged Mom of Two and Stepford Housewife, obviously much closer to the former than the latter,  and we're out the door with a minute to spare. The husband stayed behind with Carter so that I wouldn't have to constantly tell Carter to stop licking the carpet lest he want to come down with a case of the Bubonic Plague. 

Silver lining?

Our appointment goes swimmingly. Maclane is growing and thriving. Despite being a picky eater I find solace in the fact that there's hope I won't be nursing him until he enters kindergarten. The pediatrician pokes fun at his amber teething necklace and I asked her if she'd like to come to my house only between the hours of 1 and 3am to deal with the cranky teething baby and if she declines than she can just shove her un-funny snide remarks about "where's the chunky hippie baby's patchouli stick?"

Three shots and a screaming baby later, Maclane is stuffed like last week's sausage back into his car seat and I'm rushing to meet The Husband back at the house who is practically going to throw Carter through my open window as I pull into the driveway. So, that's how that feels huh? I had asked The Husband to dress Carter so that I could pick him up and head back out to pick up some diapers because, once again, we're down to two size 6s and I can't have a repeat "Holy shit, we're out of diapers" moment this month. After pulling in the driveway, I quickly run into the house to make sure that Carter is wearing matching clothes even though we're only headed to Walmart. 

The house smells deliciously of bacon and I'm a little sad that I missed a hot breakfast with my boys. Thankfully I spy two tantalizing pieces on counter and promise them I will come back for them later once diapers are in-hand. 

As we're trucking along on our way to Walmart, of course my gas light goes on so I pull into the nearest station to brave the one degree temps and quickly fill my tank. Frostbitten and cursing while trying to catch my breath, I hop back into the car once my tank is full and turn the key in the ignition. 

Nothing. So much nothing. Silence. 

No. No. No. You can't do this to me. I need diapers and it's freezing outside and I'm stuck at a gas station and there's bacon waiting for me! 

Silence. 

Fuckballs. My battery died at the gas pump. Its a good thing I threw on my big girl panties this morning before heading out to the pediatrician. Who knew I would need them to march into the little gas mart and ask for a jump? Well, I didn't need them. Because when I walked into the little quick check, the gas attendant may as well have been Abe Lincoln's mother. 

We're talking pushing about 110 years old here. 

I kindly inform her that I'm stuck at number 8 but that I've called my husband and I'll be out of the way shortly. I had to repeat myself nearly a dozen times because Mother Time's hearing aid must've been low on battery. 

Oh the irony. 

Just as the boys start nearing Meltdown Central and I've sung more nursery rhymes than should be legal at 10am, my knight in shining Under Armour arrives to jump my car. Now's probably a great time to tell you that yesterday was our 10 year anniversary. Ten years ago in a dark dorm room at Villanova (watch yourself, this is not where this is going) a wild-haired, blue-eyed fraternity brother asked me to be his girlfriend. A decade later and there he was jump starting my car in a gas station parking lot while our two kids screamed from the backseat. 

I bet that's not quite where he thought he would be ten years from that day. 

After several minutes of him yelling at me from the frigid cold "NOT YET! OKAY NOW! ASHLEY PAIGE, I SAID NOW!" I was up and running and ready to take on Walmart. Except I couldn't because I would need to leave my car running for a bit longer. Which meant that my husband who had to rush home from a meeting to jump start my car would have to take off to Walmart for me and grab the diapers. 

I know. I know. There's a mail service for this exact reason. I've already signed up for it again for the 30th time. Speaking of diapers, somewhere between my fourth and twenty-fourth nursery rhyme, I could hear Maclane having a blowout. If you're a mom, you know exactly what I'm talking about. I could literally hear the shit creeping up from the top of his diaper halfway up his back. 

Well, at least I could get home and enjoy my bacon. 

I pull in the driveway, unload the kids from the car and we fight our way through the one degree temps back into the house. Literally before even putting the car seat carrier down I head over to the counter for a piece of heavenly bacon. 

Except there is no bacon. Sheepie had hoisted his 110lbs up onto the counter and eaten the two slices of bacon I had waited my whole morning for. Now, Sheepie don't hoist. He's a big dog. Big dogs have sissy hips. Well, ain't no sissy hips coming between Sheepie and his bacon. 

He ate my fucking bacon. 

And that's about the time when I opened a bottle of champagne, mixed up a mimosa, changed Maclane's blowout diaper and sat on the couch with my morning cocktail and a dark chocolate Klondike bar. 

Take that yesterday. Take that.