First, because you are
sick near death with The Plague, forget to give your husband his presents in the morning.
Though you have asked him to take the morning off for "Birthday Morning Delight," roll your eyes at him and say, "You can just forget about THAT, Mister." (Then blow your nose heartily.)
Scoff at the "Surprise!" fancy underwear you purchased for the occasion.
Reluctantly agree to bring the children to meet him at his office bowling party that afternoon.
Violate all that you know is right and good in the world by entering a bowling alley.
Spend 45 minutes in the car trying to get home from the bowling alley at rush hour with un-fed toddlers.
When you finally arrive home, remember that you have forgotten to plan, shop for or otherwise prepare anything resembling an actual birthday dinner.
Recognize the near melt-down status of the children and rush to prepare a standard meal.
While your husband attempts to bathe the nearly over-the-edge offspring, slice the tip of your thumb almost entirely off.
Yell things like, "G*D D*MN!!" and "M*THER F*CKER!!!"
(It wouldn't be a special day at House of Joy without a stab wound.)
Visit the husband in the bathroom so he can dress the wound while the children use the distraction to put soap in each other's eyes.
Notice that the "here's soap in your eye" experiment is not going well.
Decide not to care.
Return to the kitchen with a giant, bandaged and throbbing thumb.
Watch the bandage become increasingly blood-soaked.
Abandon cooking plan.
Take chili left-overs out of the freezer and throw the entire mass, Ziplock bag and all, into a pan.
Decide that adding frozen peas to the chili will cover the required green vegetable needs of the family.
While pulling the peas from the freezer and turning towards the stove, fail to realize that the bag has a hole in it.
Listen to the pitter patter of frozen peas spewing across the kitchen floor and into the next room.
Swear like a two dollar hoo-er. (Again.)
Sweep the entirety of the two rooms without using a thumb.
Listen to the baby girl screaming.
Remove (most of) the Ziplock bag from the chili pan.
Cross fingers that eating Ziplock bags won't kill your loved ones.
Abandon chili to help with the screaming baby girl.
Return bewildered, back to the kitchen.
Cut up random items for the children's dinner (that you know they won't eat.)
Try, once again, to find The Zen Way, the path to happily throwing food away, little by little, night after night, in tiny, cut-up pieces.
Find no Zen.
Make note to self to try the Zen thing again tomorrow.
Manage to somehow put food into the children's bodies and eat Ziplock enhanced chili.
Let the baby sitter in.
Change into clothes that are not covered in food half chewed by children.
Meet other adults for drinks.
Lose your voice as your cold worsens.
Arrive home at the raging party queen hour of 10:30 p.m.
Give your husband the wrapped gifts.
Show him the underwear and return it to the drawer.
Pass out and stay that way for the next 36 hours so that your husband has to parent on his own for his entire birthday weekend.
Monday, December 18, 2006
First, because you are