On Friday night, all I wanted was a pizza for dinner. With an empty pantry and a long workday behind me, the last thing I felt like doing was getting in the car with two cranky kids for a grocery run. So, I went online to find the number for Firetrail Pizza. From the name alone, I should have sensed trouble. After being disconnected twice, I finally reached someone, only to find out the number I called was for a brewery, not a pizza place. Perhaps that was a sign from the universe—a beer would have been nice. But my stomach growled louder than my desires for a drink.
As I began to place an order for a pear-gorgonzola pizza, my toddler, Mia, erupted in tears. I picked her up; she quieted. I set her down; she screamed. The person on the other end of the line sounded less than thrilled. Determined to get my pizza fix, I retreated to the master bedroom to finalize the order. I felt like I was in a zoo, anxious that I might end up ordering something dreadful—like olives. I loathe olives.
What was supposed to be a 20-minute wait dragged into 40 minutes, then an hour. My family was becoming increasingly hangry. I tapped my fingers on the counter and paced. Finally, I called the delivery driver. To my dismay, he had no record of my order. It was already bedtime, and I needed a backup plan or risk losing my sanity.
In a moment of desperation, I ordered Thai food instead. A scathing Yelp review about the pizza place was on the horizon. We finally ate nearly three hours after my initial phone call. Where’s my dinner? At this point, I thought a glass of wine was all I really needed. I could have sworn I left it right here. I suppose it could always be worse.
Saturday’s Struggles
Saturday was no better. My grouchy, teething toddler decided to skip breakfast and cling to me like a koala, wailing in my ear. I was in dire need of coffee—coffee and some peace and quiet. My five-year-old, Emma, sat down in a puddle of maple syrup while still in her ballet outfit, and we ended up late for dance class. She didn’t change, and her outfit bore the sticky evidence.
When she finally arrived 15 minutes late, she opened her dance bag only to discover she had forgotten her tap shoes. The show must go on, I thought. She danced, syrupy and without shoes, while I darted to a nearby coffee shop with Mia to secure my much-needed caffeine fix.
At the counter, I placed Mia at my feet and ordered my latte. As the barista worked her magic, I slid my credit card into the reader and took a sip of my drink. Suddenly, the cashier’s expression changed. “Your card is declined,” she said. I attempted my debit card, hoping for a miracle. I needed this coffee because between last night and today, this weekend was turning into a nightmare. My paycheck had just been deposited, so why was my card not working?
With a sigh, I stepped aside to call my bank, keeping an eye on my precious latte. Mia began pulling on my pant leg, tears streaming down her cheeks. As I turned to console her, my keys and credit card slipped from my hand and clattered to the ground. I considered throwing a tantrum right there, but instead, I bent down to gather my daughter and my scattered belongings. Just then, I heard a rip and felt a rush of cool air on my backside. The whole cafe got an unexpected glimpse of my floral underwear. I wasn’t leaving without that coffee, though. I scuttled to the wall, grabbed my latte, and imagined Emma’s reaction when I finally picked her up.
When I arrived fashionably late to the ballet studio, the teacher looked perplexed as I awkwardly moonwalked to the car, trying to avoid any further humiliation. I should have just locked myself inside the house and called it a day, but the show must go on.
Birthday Party Chaos
Later that afternoon, we had a swim lesson followed by a birthday party. At the pool, Emma refused to listen to the instructor and was told to get out. Watching her sit idly while my money literally went down the drain, I felt my patience dwindling. Thankfully, she apologized to her swim teacher and finished her lesson. We exited into the sunshine, hoping things were finally turning around.
After swimming, we headed to Target to find a gift for the birthday party. We jumped back into the car and set our GPS. When we arrived at Lucy’s house, it was empty. We knocked and rang the bell, puzzled by the crowd of construction workers. One of them peeked out to inform us that Lucy and her family weren’t home. Wrong party; wrong day. I wanted to cry. Mia started to fuss, her voice escalating into a wail because she needed a nap. The birthday party we were actually supposed to attend was at least 20 minutes away, and even though I didn’t know any of the parents and nobody was expecting me, we still had to go. I didn’t ask for this chaotic weekend. I couldn’t care less if Mercury was in retrograde; I just wanted to redeem myself as the mom I envisioned.
We arrived 35 minutes late to Jake’s birthday party, but I still believed we could salvage the day. We made a quick stop at Safeway to grab a gift, but that’s when Emma vanished. One moment she was next to me, and the next—poof, she was gone. I frantically searched aisle after aisle, calling her name while Mia tried to free herself from the cart. My heart raced as I imagined the worst-case scenarios.
After ten minutes, I found Emma in the candy aisle, calmly holding a book as if nothing had happened. Furious, I scolded her, purchased the gift, and got us back in the car. By the time we reached the party, we were nearly two hours late. I questioned why we even bothered; it was a Halloween-themed party, and we looked out of place. Social anxiety at its peak.
Sunday’s Final Straw
On Sunday, I took Emma to the correct birthday party, and thankfully, we brought the right gift. It was sweltering, and Mia appeared to be melting down, clinging to the floor instead of enjoying the festivities. We left early, still without groceries in the house. We drove home to grab our grocery bags, but Mia fell asleep in the car. I carried her to her room, where she napped for three hours while my stomach grumbled.
When my grumpy toddler finally woke up, I tried to get her in the car for groceries, but she refused and threw a tantrum in the driveway. I considered having a meltdown myself.
On Monday, I dropped Emma off at dance camp, counting my blessings—at least she didn’t have a syrup stain on her outfit this time. I returned to my car, only to find it locked. I had left my keys in Emma’s dance bag. I had to rush back into the building and interrupt her class, all while twenty pairs of eyes watched me rummage through her things to retrieve my keys. I dashed back to my car, desperate not to be late for work.
That’s when I realized I had also left my phone in her dance bag. Maybe I needed another cup of coffee; my head felt like scrambled eggs. What a terrible case of the Mondays. I decided I’d retrieve my phone later.
After a few hours and following a work meeting, I picked up Emma and dropped her off at daycare. She quickly changed in the backseat, and I set my phone on top of the car—a huge mistake. As I drove away, I heard a loud SWISH followed by a THUNK. It wasn’t until I got to the office that I realized what that noise was. My phone was now homeless, lying somewhere on the streets of Petaluma.
Petaluma, enjoy that expensive gadget. Maybe you needed it more than I did. At least you didn’t take my wine. Or my latte.
Further Reading
If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, check out this blog post from our collection. For a comprehensive guide on artificial insemination kits, visit Make a Mom’s page for expert advice. For more information on infertility rates, the CDC has an excellent resource here.
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In summary, my weekend was filled with chaos and mishaps, from missed pizza orders to lost children in stores. Despite the madness, I managed to navigate through it all, reminding myself that it could always be worse.