A leaky tire, a fake leg and Floam

I am a mess.

I have friends whose husbands have been away from their families many months at a time. These women dig in. They go deeper. They find reserves of strength.

Here I am, lo unto the second week of Roy's absence. I have dug in and gone deeper only to discover I am perhaps not suited for single motherhood, in the way Notorious BIG is not suited for children's music.

Let's review the past couple of days.

I had intentions of being good -- of getting up early every morning to have some quiet time. It hasn't turned out that way, so much. After pushing the snooze button a number of times that requires the use of integers, I rolled out of bed yesterday having to get Madeline up, pack her lunch, get us both dressed, force her to eat two bites of SOMETHING (not eating breakfast = godlessness), scoop Connor out of bed and get her to school before the tardy bell rang.

35 minutes? No problem.

I pulled up alongside the curb where one of the helpful teachers -- who was beginning to give straggling parents the we-really-need-to-get-inside-now look -- headed over to our car. At this point, I turn around in my seat to hand Madeline her cute, pink monogrammed backpack. Unfortunately, it's upside down, so the top comes unsnapped in her hands. Which, although nothing fell out, greatly irritates Madeline who wastes no time telling me about it (which, in all fairness, pretty much mirrors my behavior the past several days).

The teacher is getting closer. Other late arrivers are waiting for us to Unload The Child and move on. I snatch the backpack, invert it, snap it, hand it to her again. She starts to put it on her back. The bag is fairly small, and the straps aren't too long, so in order to get it on her back, she has to shimmy into it using chicken-esque arm flapping motions.

Get out of the car first, I tell her. Which, of course, ratchets up the tension. Then I remember her four-pack of cinnamon-flavored applesauce for snack times and hand it over as she's fighting with her pack.

Oh my good Lord. You would think I handed the child an oil-slicked octopus. The audacity of asking her to carry TWO THINGS in her TWO HANDS was, well, too much.

Despite the plethora of items she had to juggle -- in fact, the teacher had read the scene and moved on to another car behind us -- she somehow found it possible to slap her face into her hands out of the sheer horror of having landed such a mother. Finally, when I said something nice like, "Get out of the car. Now!" she exited the vehicle only to find it impossible to close the car door, what with an item in each hand and all.

She shoved at it halfheartedly with the applesauce pack. It moved a few inches. She looked at the door. Shrugged and turned toward the building. At this point, I employed my highly refined knowledge of child psychology by hollering: "If you don't CLOSE THE DOOR I'll spank you RIGHT! NOW!"

Magically, she managed to do just that fairly quickly, but not before I added, "Have a good day. Love you."

Then I went home, got Connor dressed, fed, lunch packed and carted him off to Angel Keepers for a portion of the day. I discovered somewhere during all this that I had a low tire. So I went to a convenience store, put in my 50 cents (because we certainly wouldn't want to offer free AIR, would we?) and stared at the lifeless hose. Busted.

I drove off, leaving behind my air pressure gauge. I pulled into another gas station. The air pump had an Out of Service sign on it. I moved on.

The air pump at the next station had no sign on it. But it cost 75 cents. Because, of course, we wouldn't want the price of air to be competitive. I had two quarters left and managed to find enough loose coins to exchange them for the all-important third one. I inserted them. I staired at the lifeless hose.

Have I mentioned it was raining?

The clerk kindly provided me not with 75 cents, but with an 800-number I can call for recompense. Yeah. I'll get right on that.

A customer witnessed the exchange and informed me Brookshire's has -- are you ready for this: -- free air. So I drove across town. Yeah. There's an Out of Service sign on the pump.

Sigh.

I pulled into an auto service station, quickly explained the situation, throwing myself, like Blanche DuBois, on the kindness of strangers. All six employees, heretofore seated comfortably and probably discussing the president's address before the United Nations, shot me blank looks. The kind of look that makes you think if you had a spare banjo, there might possibly be a showdown to follow.

Finally, to get me out of there, one fellow graciously aired up the afflicted tire. Thank you, Jesus.

Later that day, when I return home with both children, I find a prosthetic leg hanging from my back door. Really. A prosthetic leg. Hanging. From my back door.

A friend of a friend had dropped it off for me to return to its owner, whom I sorta know, through my husband.

I just wish it had been an arm, because at this point, I could really use an extra hand.

Then tonight as I worked to get the kids in bed, Connor walked into Madeline's room where I was enjoying a nice mommy moment combing out her hair. He was still undressed, having not been long out of the bath. Without preamble, he turned his back to me, bent over, grabbed both bottom cheeks and said, "Look."

Have you ever heard of Floam? It's basically goop -- in this case pink goop -- filled with Styrofoam pellets, which can then be molded or used to coat various items. The various item during this instance would be my son's posterior. Or, as his best friend Caleb likes to say, his boodelay.

If Roy was here, I imagine Connor would still have applied pink Floam to his boodelay, but it would be nice, so nice, to have said, "Roy, could you remove the Floam from your son's hiney?"

Opportunities like that don't come along every day.

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