My Own Day of Infamy

It was my own day of infamy. But not the infamy you’re thinking of.

The I.N.F.Amy. The Day of Is-Not-Functioning-Amy.
Blame the strep throat that rocked our Fourth of July in not one, not two, not three, but four-and-a-half ways.

Blame the five hours of sleep (four short of the ideal). In and of itself, those missed hours shall be blamed on a combination of earlier-than-realistic plans and later-than-anticipated-retiring-to-bed, which is to be blamed on poor judgment of the person walking around in this body. 

Blame the new housing arrangement still being adapted to.

Blame the three littles who stood bewildered at the bottom of the stairs, one attempting to process what their mother could possibly mean by, “You either get a sippy cup of water now or you get a birthday cake in two days. You can’t have both. Which will it be?” another attempting to steal a stuffed KnuffleBunny from his brother (the irony runs deep), and the third attempting to seek sympathy for scratches acquired at the hands of a little sister, all while wearing a purple owl eye-mask around his neck.

Yeah, let’s blame it on the last set.

Which surely explains what happened next. 

I found myself splat (pun intended) in the middle of my worst mom sequel yet – Batter Splatter 2. I’d made a mistake I swore I’d never make again. I’m sure it had something to do with a new kitchen arrangement, where the mixer sat on the opposite side of the work surface, begging me to mistake the mixing-speed-power-button for the tilt-head-lock-button and ramp up a layering of eggs, flour, oil, and water until it crawled every crevice of kitchen numero dos.

Dennis backed away quickly and I assured him this was not the first, nor likely the last, of my #mommybrain #lifefails for the day.

I’d interrogated the cashier at Meijer: “If Twizzlers are on sale for buy two, get one free, why did I only get two of them free?” His blank stare encouraged me to rephrase it. “The sale says they were buy two, get one free.” He smiled and said, “Yes, that’s what it looks like.” I continued. “I bought six of them, so why are only two of them coming up free?” A pause. And then I got it. “Oh.” #mathishard

But the moment of all moments came as I unpacked the party gear for my daughter’s birthday. I pulled out the cutest, little candle, perfect to adorn the would-be princess cake. I was so proud to have found the perfect, yellow, glittery candle. I showed it to Dennis, who I was sure would be equally as impressed.

“Wait. Let me see that again.”

He had that “something’s not quite right here” tilt of his head.

I filled in with snark. “It’s got a wick and a stick. It’s a candle.”

And then I, too, saw it.

It was the most adorable little, yellow, glittery “2” candle on the market.

It’s just that my daughter was turning 3.

There it is.

I’m done. Should’ve been done at 3 p.m. and avoided the candle, Twizzler, Batter Splatter 2 scenes altogether.

But no. Sometimes I just don’t know when to quit.

Sometimes you need someone to (figuratively, in most cases) slap you across the face and say, “Wake up!” Or in my case, “Go to sleep!”

Sometimes you just aren’t functioning any more. You shouldn’t be operating motor vehicles. You shouldn’t even be operating kitchen mixers, apparently. You shouldn’t be making purchases nor should you be interacting with people. You most definitely shouldn’t be overseeing children, much less parenting. You shouldn’t be using anything that doesn’t have an eraser or a delete or undo button. You shouldn’t be making any decisions. You shouldn’t be allowed to speak. You shouldn’t be in any position other than laying down with access to nothing and access to no one.

It’s for your own good and the good of the world around you.

Sometimes the day is over long before you want it to be.

Such are extreme days. They are not the norm (or at least they shouldn’t be! If they are, you may need a tag-team slap-attack to shut your non-functioning self down.) But some days, you need to take a long hard look in the mirror and admit, “I Is Not Functioning today.” The grammar will sound off to the rest of the world, but because this is just a conversation between you and your reflection, I think it’ll be okay. If today, you find yourself in a Day of Inf(amy) – or more properly, a Day of Inf(_your-name-here_), consider this your virtual slap and go directly to bed. I promise. You’ll thank me in the morning.

4 thoughts on “My Own Day of Infamy

  1. Give up the kid books and write your nonfiction mom book! This is hysterical! I grieve for your day of infamy–but it’s those days that make you so stinking funny. Love you sweet pea.

  2. Every time I scroll past that glittery #2 I lol!! Brave woman for doing a birthday party, with so much on your plate right now!!

    1. Hahahaha I never made it back to look for a “3” and had to borrow candles from a friend. I can’t believe that’s where my head was! Thankfully the next bday isn’t til December 😴

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