We are on our way out the door and Full Speed says, “I’ll hold the door for you, Mommy.” As I pass through he follows and I close the door behind us.
“Don’t forget to lock the door, Mom. We don’t want anyone to sneak in except for the Easter Bunny.” Then he proceeds to recount his glorious memories of Easter and how that magical bunny made his way into our home and left him lots of cool stuff.
I love the random things that come out of his mouth.
When I picked up the boys from school they were wild with enthusiasm and not behaving in a calm manner (no surprise there!). We get to that door (oh, that darn, alarmed door) and Full Speed cocks back his leg and lets a swift kick go. Fortunately, his kick wasn’t strong enough to budge it open and everyone’s ears were saved from the piercing alarm sound.
I look down at him and say in my most exasperated Mommy-voice, “How many times do I need to tell you NOT to touch the door until I push the green button?”
He pauses and looks at me. “Twenty-eight.”
He says it like I’m suppose to know this number. Apparently, I was only at twenty-seven even though it feels like I have to remind him every single time NOT to touch the door. I hope we hit twenty-eight soon.
I decide to take them to Wendy’s for drive-thru cuisine (somehow it makes me feel like less of a slacker if I refer to it as cuisine) because Mad Dog is away on business and I am tired. When Mad Dog told me a few weeks back he would be gone for the four days leading up to Full Speed’s second surgery I was mostly calm. I told him that even though I was taking this bit of information calmly, that I would most likely be passively aggressive as his departure date approached. Then I said, who am I kidding? I’m going to be overtly aggressive. And true to form, I was (your welcome, my dear).
We get to the speaker-thing you order your stuff at and I tell the boys to stop fighting or Wendy’s won’t be able to hear me. This shuts T.Puzzle right up because the only thing he loves more than his Mommy are chicken nuggets.
I end up sounding like I have a screw loose. I awkwardly stumble through our order like it’s a complex math equation as opposed to a simple, fast food order. The man taking my order seems slightly perturbed as he has to ask several, qualifying questions because I’m not making a whole lot of sense. I’m frazzled. I have Full Speed asking me a million meaningless questions, I have about forty-seven more things to accomplish before bedtime and I wish my husband was home to lighten the load. The man tells me the total and I pull around to the second window to pay my $12.08. I thought to save the patient, Wendy’s employee some time that I will make exact change for him. So I hand him two tens and exactly eight cents. I’m proud of myself for doing it, too.
He returns shortly with my food and then hands me some cash and a heaping pile of change. I have no idea what the true total was but I know I had it totally wrong. This guy must think I’m an idiot to only give him eight cents towards whatever the amount was (which clearly was a whole lot more). So I’m making trouble instead of saving trouble. Now I see where my boys get it from.