I had almost finished loading the car for a two week vacation in California. We were flying instead of driving so timing was important. My husband was at the office handling some last minute details while I packed for him and the five kids, loaded the car, made sandwiches, checked-in for our flights, made sure every one had something to entertain themselves, arranged for the pets and the yard and cleaned the house. Get the picture? We had five minutes before we needed be in the car and make the one hour drive to the airport. The kids were wild so I banned them to the back yard and and told them not to show their faces until Dad was in the driveway. Mother of the year.
Hubby screeched in with three minutes to spare. I greeted him in the driveway. We locked eyes. I think I saw him shudder as he pulled past me and parked his car in the garage.
I fumed by the car as he rushed in to change his clothes. It was then that I heard the pandemonium erupt in the backyard.
Four kids barreled around the side of the house, a churning mass of shouts and pointing fingers. A fifth child came more slowly, dripping, shoes squishing, hair sopping, algae clinging to his clothes. His older sibling had shoved him headlong into the pond. We had one minute.
After a moment of stunned shock, I sprung to action. My husband herded the dry kids into the car while I stripped the wet one. I bagged his shoes, wiped the pond scum off his head and hung over the back seat, digging for some dry clothes as we rocketed down the highway. We made it. Barely. Frazzled mothers should be upgraded to first-class and given complimentary cocktails. I also recommend a special section in the back, by the bathrooms, for procrastinating fathers and unruly children. Just sayin’.
The perp in this case just got married. I’m still not over it.