The last few weekends the family and I have either been out of town, or in town but very heavily scheduled. Soooo … since we haven’t been home, my “mom” duties have been officially neglected. No laundry has been done. No trips to the grocery store have been made. The house is scattered with suitcases and overnight bags that still haven’t been unpacked from spring break.
A pile of unopened mail is sitting on the kitchen counter, alongside a mountain of paper that is the kids’ schoolwork and announcements and such (I think my kids are each personally responsible for the deaths of at least 20 trees per year).
I would fire me if this were my actual job I got paid for. Or at least put my slack-ass on probation.
I will get it caught back up if we ever stay home again, but the current conditions in our family atmosphere have made the chances for a “Momnado” very likely. A mom tornado is a storm of epic proportions, causing widespread damage throughout a family’s home. Screaming and tears often accompany this highly emotional “system.”
The following is a log of the hour leading up to the last time one of these things hit.
5:55 a.m. The house is dark and still but there is an ominous feeling. A storm is brewing.
6:05 a.m. The husband’s alarm goes off on his phone. For some reason he has it set to a ringtone of “Pass the Dutchie on the Left-hand Side” because he felt it would be a funny song to wake up to. It once was. Not anymore. Husband hits snooze button. Wife, who is tired, convinces herself in some semi-conscious state there is definitely at least one clean school uniform available for each child. She should have checked this last night but she did not. She snoozes too.
6:05 a.m. “Pass the Dutchie” comes back on. The snooze button is hit again.
6:10 a.m. The alarm goes off again. The wife wants to kill the people in the phone singing about the “dutchie” and about lovely breezy afternoons and having no food. But I guess they’ve already had it bad enough. Who knew that song was about starvation? Isn’t it about jumping rope or pot? Maybe it’s all of the above.
6:12 a.m. Wife heads to kid closet number one as she sings stupid reggae song that will remain in her head all morning. There is a clean shirt but no clean jumper. There may be one in laundry room. Shirt is thrown over arm. Panic does not set in … yet.
6:14 a.m. Wife heads to kid closet number two. No clean shirts. Only one pair of pants, but they are hand-me-downs and are still too big. There is still hope in laundry room, though.
6:15 a.m. Wife arrives at laundry room. Boy’s basket yields a shirt but no pants. Girl’s basket provides the jumper — yes, the one with the ink stain on it that will not come out. Not ideal but we’ll roll with it. The ink stain was obtained at school, why shouldn’t it go back for a visit? Boy pants still missing. There are plenty of dirty ones in hamper.
6:16 a.m. Wife looks at clock and realizes there is no time for a “quick wash” of boy’s pants in her new washing machine, which she hates. She begins once again ranting how her old washing machine used to be able to do a little load in 10 minutes; now this fancy, high efficiency one takes an hour even on “small load” and “quick wash.” She vows again to find an old-school one on Craigslist. Like one from the ‘80s or ‘90s. This is what she longs for in her life now, an old washing machine. She reminds herself to be sad about this later.
6:18 a.m. She grabs the least-dirty pair of pants off the floor and the Febreze and freshens up the boy’s slacks. Uniforms are done, for the most part.
6: 20 a.m. The kids are still in bed. The irony of this is great, she thinks, as they were both up by 6 a.m. on Saturday and Sunday. She yells enough until they finally begin to rise.
6:25 a.m. As they finally stir, the boy wants waffles. The girl wants sausage biscuits. The wife cannot provide either of these options. This isn’t a café, she says. It’s grits or cereal. The boy and girl spend next five minutes complaining.
6:30 a.m. Grits and cereal are served. The kids reluctantly eat it.
6:40 a.m. Wife notices sticky substance in girl’s hair. It was just washed last night. What could this be? No time to send said substance to the lab for analysis, but all signs point to slime. Yes, slime. Who decided this stuff was a good idea for a toy? They should be shot. The funnel cloud is beginning to form. No time to murder this person, as girl’s hair will now have to be quick-washed and dried. At least this can be accomplished, the wife thinks, throwing shade at the not-so-efficient “high-efficiency” washing machine.
6:45 a.m. Girl is put in shower, screaming she doesn’t need one because she had a bath last night. Wife reminds her she decided to put slime in her hair sometime after said bath. Wife combs it out for next 10 minutes under hot water.
6:55 a.m. Time is running out. Wife screams at boy to finish getting dressed as she blow-dries girl’s now slime-free hair. Boy yells he can’t find his belt. Wife yells across house: Did you check your room? Did you check your bathroom? Did you check your backpack? He claims he did but still can’t find it. Wife knows just how hard her son looks for things. (Not very.) Rotation in the funnel cloud begins as she frantically begins to look in all of these places, throwing things off the floor and out of the backpack so she can see. Clothes, wadded up pieces of paper, start flying out of the Momnado, like that cow in “Twister.”
7:05 a.m. Belt is miraculously found at bottom of boy’s backpack. Snacks still need to be packed.
7:05 a.m. Momnado rummages through the pantry and finds a stray bag of Nilla wafers and some Pringles. Not healthy, but no starvation. Better off than the poor kids in “Pass the Dutchie.”
7:10 a.m. Five minutes before the husband, who is responsible for kid transportation, leaves with these two. Snacks, check. Backpacks, check. Clothes, check. Well, except for one thing. The girl is still barefoot. Where are the girl’s shoes and socks? The husband begins looking for shoes. Momnado goes back to laundry to rifle through the sock basket.
The dreaded left-foot and right-foot uniform sock dilemma rears its ugly head once again. Predictably, five right-foot socks are found before one left sock is found. Momnado rages into full F5 funnel cloud. How could this even be mathematically possible to find this many right-foot socks before a single left-foot stock? The Momnado dumps the entire basket on the floor. She wants to cry. But just then, she sees one more balled-up uniform sock. Please be a left one, please be a left one, please be a left one, she screams to herself. She unrolls it. Score! She twirls back into the living room and helps the girl get the shoes and socks on.
7:15 a.m. The husband, boy and girl get hugged, kissed and then leave for school.
7:16 a.m. The rotation ceases. The atmosphere has calmed, but the damage has been done and is widespread. There are dirty uniform pants and clean socks all over the floor. A glob of grits on the counter. Pink slime all over the bottom of the shower floor. Thankfully, no injuries were reported. The cleanup efforts begin, as she calmly hums, “Pass the dutchie on the left- hand side.”
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