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LONG WEEK. Not last week. Nope, entirely different.

It started with something small, like a flat tire. A Run Flat tire, the only kind of tire that will fit my car. A tire that seemed like a neat idea when we bought the car. A tire, SO CRAPPY in design and FLAWED in concept, I’m in constant awe that an engineer designed it. I’m certain someone in marketing priced it. Now, 2 summers and 6 tires later, I’ve invested enough money into these ALWAYS FLAT tires (that have some magnetic force that attracts nails), I could have purchased a island in the Galapagos chain.

These tires can only be installed by two guys in the state who only work from 9-3 at the dealership, and it takes 1.5 hours PER TIRE for repair. So with their AC broken, I entertained two kids in the hot as hell “kids area” (vat of germs and broken toys) for an hour and a half to find out my tire couldn’t be patched (SURPRISE! Really? Wow, I didn’t see that coming), and if I could please come back tomorrow, they’d be happy to put on a NEW $250 tire in only ONE AND A HALF HOURS.

Tuesday, hit the repeat button, but the AC was repaired, so the girls only swam in a vat of germs, as opposed to hot germs.

Wednesday, I had the big plans (enter Fate, that Bitch I intend to hunt down later tonight with a shotgun and Sara’s samurai sword that squeaks…it sounds cheesy, but it’s actually very Uma). We were going to make cookies, buy sandals at the Mall, and play in the pool. SWEET! Kelly has had two nights of fever, and by this morning, I decided maybe it wasn’t due to the four teeth she has coming in all at once. Off to the pediatrician, where once again, Mommy instincts are spot on…throat and ear infection. Poor thing! But the new insurance cards haven’t arrived, despite us paying for insurance, so for the first time since my irresponsible twenties, I had to sign all of the “uninsured” forms. Even though…I am insured. Life is funny that way. Or not.

BUT, the water has been disconnected at the doctor’s office during an emergency repair (thank you floods), so we can’t run through the Pharmacy with a screaming hungry Kelly. We must rush home for the obligatory bottle, now exactly 1 hour and 20 minutes late. Naps, fine…up, and off to Meijer, where amoxicillin is FREE. Seriously, FREE. Waltzing up to the pharmacy to present my FREE prescription, NO COUPON NEEDED, only to realize I’d left it on the kitchen island. Suddenly, I’ve become “That Mom”. That Mom who goes all the way to her daughter’s school 2 weeks ago for Meet and Greet night, ON THE WRONG NIGHT. That was me. With a babysitter and lipstick on and everything. We went one night too early. WHO HAVE I BECOME? I’m like some pitiful character from a Jennifer Weiner novel.

Back home, just in time for the 4 pm bottle that Kelly will only take 2 sips of, but if she doesn’t get it by 4 pm, ALL FREAKIN’ HELL BREAKS LOOSE in a very pissed-off-infant kind of way. Which anyone surviving a baby’s first year of life will tell you, other than the end of the world, there is nothing worse than a pissed off infant with whom you have no means by which to communicate. Like, I’d rather sit through a Amy Whinehouse concert, with her singing sober, than listen to Kelly screech.

Back to Meijer, looking everywhere for the cheap popsicles in a tube that Sara MUST have, that we are out of, that despite two grocery store runs already this week I cannot locate, that are the only thing Kelly will take for teething. It’s cool because I’m about to get free antibiotics, so I ask the Meijer stock boy about the popsicles, which he explains are in some bizarro demand, and they are perpetually out, except for one box, way in the back of the stockroom, and he’ll be glad to run back and get me a netted bag of this valuable black market, $2.99 for like 500, popsicles. Bless you, I say. Bless you, sweet Meijer Stock Boy. Out he comes, and as I march away, patting myself on the back for my resourcefulness, I notice that a yellow popsicle has busted open and leaked gooey, sticky syrup all over my groceries and Sara.

AND KELLY HAS POOPED….AGAIN.

Out to the car, headed home, it’s cool…we’ll be home in 3 minutes. But there, in the passenger seat, are Pop Pop’s cookies. The cookies I had to put in the fridge due to the doctor run. The cookies I have been planning to cook for our grandfathers as a Father’s Day gift. The cookies I hammered out while the girls took their nap. For which I had saved a formula can for 2 weeks especially, so they wouldn’t get crushed. All wrapped, with a card, waiting to be mailed, just in time. No decent Project Manager gets that close to a finish line and walks away. It’s would be a black eye to Critical Paths everywhere. THEY MUST BE MAILED, I CHANT! Off to UPS. I’ll change the diaper in the minivan! Isn’t that why I bought this gigantic Blue Monster anyway? Genius!

I get Kelly out of her carseat and lay her in the back third (acre), lean down to start the change, and my hips wedge, in a loud, very permanent way, in between the middle seats. So loudly, Sara asks, “MOMMY! WHAT was THAT sound?” That Sara, is the sound of hips spreading after creating 50 lbs of drama, I like to call, you and your sister. So I had to change Kelly’s diaper in a position that appeared as if I were almost doing a cartwheel into the back seat. It was painful to do, and painful to watch. Poop flew about the place in unpredictable ways. Poop, that because Kelly sat on in a grocery cart, has become more of a second skin. Poop so reticent to move, I went through an entire bag of wipes. Thank you Honda, for more brilliant, Mommy friendly, design.

Mailed the cookies, they will arrive on time. SUPER. All grandfathers need Oatmeal Scotchies. Please don’t ask me why. The spirit moved me to mail them cookies. It might be the spirit of, “that’s all I can afford this year”. Back home to find a cat has ONCE AGAIN, FOR THE 100oth TIME THIS MONTH, PUKED ON MY CARPET. Refer to shotgun and samurai comment earlier.

Despite now three grocery store runs in 3 days, I have no tomatoes, thanks to a Salmonella outbreak, and I am planning Grilled Cheese with Bacon and Tomatoes with Soup for dinner. So just leave off the tomatoes, you think. Have you met me? If I’m so much as missing a garnish, I scrap an entire recipe. I’m psychotic in the most unpredictable and USELESS of ways. Not too mention, if Sara the relentless Italian, doesn’t have a tomato with her meal, she just won’t eat. Sara WUBS tomatoes. Greg strolls in after my “911!!!” emails with tomatoes on the vine. Fresh and free from the nationwide tomato ban. Oh sweet Panko Breadcrumb Husband of Mine. I WUB YOU. Sara eats, I listen to “Morning Lullabies” by Ingrid Michaelson while I’m cooking (download immediately if you need a moment of Zen), and all is well with the world again.

Until bathtime when Kelly both pee’d on the carpet and puked right as I was laying her down in bed. Poor thing!

In all seriousness, it’s just a long week. A few months ago, a week like this would have caused me to drink a bottle of Nyquil, claim I had the cold of the century (don’t judge…all parents have faked a Nyquil sick out to get a night off…if not, you’re either weak or just lying), and attempt to disappear from my life. I’d be behind at work, feel like a failure at home, and covered in a cloak of Mommy guilt. Instead, I have popsicles, tomatoes, free antibiotics, a new tire, and have had, as of Wednesday, one very long week. No big deal.

Thanks for listening. You’re as insane as I am if you’ve made it this far. And I’ll officially tatoo “Lori’s dear friend” on your bicep for letting me rant.