An Answer to “What’s It Like, Having So Many Kids?”

Well, this was just ONE DAY, but it’s fairly representative of my life:

Wake up to Mineral telling me sheepishly that he wet the bed. Silently thank the goddess I have plastic mattress protectors on all beds in this house. Decide it’s a good time to wash and change his and Animal’s sheets.

Wash sheets, mattress pads, pillow cases and blankets.

Wash cloth diapers.

Decide I am really craving a quiche or a strata or something baked, with eggs in it. Start to make a strata with cheese, ham and broccoli. The Informant and My Masterpiece want to help. While trying to “help,” they break six eggs. On the floor.

Wash towels. My washer and dryer are now entirely occupied by egg shells.

It’s hot, and we’re out of milk. Luckily, the place where we buy raw milk — yes, of course we drink raw milk! — also sells ice cream. Tell the kids it’s time for a treat, we’re going out for milk and ice cream! Arrive at store. Kids run inside. I unbuckle Porcelain and cuddle her against me. She smiles, coughs, and begins vomiting all over me and down my shirt.

There is regurgitated egg strata on my neck. There is a broccoli floret on my shorts. There is vomit in my bra.

Stare at her for a moment, then look at kids inside the store, and say out loud, “I have no idea what to do right now.”

Think of my mother. She’s good in crisis, What would she do? Realize the answer is, Buy her way out of this nightmare.

Motion at The Informant to return outside, gesturing at myself and Porcelain. Curse myself for not carrying several large towels — or perhaps even a horse trough and a hose —  in my minivan, since I have only a few wipes that wouldn’t even clean my shoes. Hand my debit card over to The Informant, telling her to go back inside and buy me a shirt in size large, please. She returns minutes later with a neon-blue and pink shirt that screams CAROLINA GIRL!

Well, okay. I suppose I am kind of a Carolina Girl, though I’m neither a native Carolinian nor a “girl.”

Remove vomit-covered shirt and put it in a plastic bag. Yep, that’s me, changing my clothes in a parking lot by the freeway in South Carolina.

Go inside, get ice cream — in a cone! while the kids whine that they have to eat from cups. Too bad life isn’t fair, kids! — get milk, get parmesan cheese (which we were out of), get the hell out of the store. Torrential downpour begins, while I’m buckling in Porcelain. My car smells like wet children and strata vomit (ham, broccoli, and cheese).

Arrive home. Shower. Make dinner. Weep.

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