“Mommy! Get that ball!” My five-year old calls out as I’m walking out the door, holding a coffee in one hand, a water bottle under my arm, my 40 pound pocketbook over my shoulder, two camp knapsacks over the other arm, and a bag of dirty clothes for the dry cleaner.
A wrapped granola bar for my oldest dangles from my mouth. “Oh yeah,” I mutter, through gritted teeth. “Let me get that for you.”
“What?” He jumps in front of me. “What?”
“Get the ball, mommy!” My 11 year-old calls out, leaning on his wiffle bat.
I’m struggling with the keys, trying to press the button that automatically opens my mini-van door and not drop my coffee, or I’d freak on them.
“Mommy? Can you get the ball?” He asks again. Seriously, does he not have eyes? Or legs?
Only my 8 year-old has the ability to see outside of himself.
“Can I help you? He asks. “I can take my bag.”
I try to smile with my eyes, the only unencumbered part of my body, but I keep moving. Any disruption would cause everything to drop faster than a pair of old boobs on new twins.
I make it to the car and dump everything onto the seat, except my coffee, which I gently place in its holder.
Whew. 8am and I’m already done, but of course, it’s just beginning. I need to drive the oldest to baseball camp, the middle to day camp and the youngest… Damn, the youngest has no camp.
“Mommy! You didn’t get the ball!” My 5 year-old accuses, which I ignore.
“Get in the car, please.”
They pile in and once settled, I run to retrieve the wiffle ball and toss it on the lawn. We’re ready.
First stop! Camp for Boy 1 in next town.
Second stop! Camp for Boy 2 in town next to next town.
Then me and Boy 3 drop the dry cleaning, stop at the supermarket and head home to play legos,haveacatch,drawpictures,watchshowwhileidoelliptical&eatlunch.
First stop! Boy 1.
Second stop! Boy 2.
Third stop. Train station in totally different town to pick up daddy.
We get there in about 20 minutes, but have almost an hour before the train. My middle has a game tonight so he changes into his uniform in the back while they eat the snacks I packed and watch episodes of the Brady Bunch on the minivan TV. All hail the minivan TV.
This is our down time. Hope you’re enjoying it. Want a cheese stick?
Once husband/coach is in the car, we head straight for the field.
Throw. Catch. Pitch. Strike. Run. We win. Yay! Or, we lose. Boo!
Either way, we head home.
Once inside, I collect their dirty clothes and send their dirty bodies to the shower.
“Look, Mama,” My 5 year-old says over and over, and every time I do, he’s in a different naked position displaying himself.
Balls. Balls. Balls.
I hear my husband click on the TV, and the room fills with baseball.
No way he’s going to score tonight.