Going Home

Monday started at 7 am when I awoke to the sound of a whistling crew of six men out my back door ready to replace one of those towering electric poles that was damaged in last year's hurricane. Since I put my children down to sleep at 9 pm and my head doesn't hit the pillow till 1 or 2 am on most nights, this was an omen that this day was going to be bad.

And it was.

I quickly discovered Wyatt had wet his bed, Amelia and Emerson both were already in bad moods because of their erupting top teeth (and accompanying low-grade fevers and upset tummies), and I needed medicine, myself, but the doctor wasn't in until 9.

By 8, the auger was up and running, efficiently making a hole behind my gardenia bush for the new pole. As soon as I stepped out back, the man running the huge auger started motioning at me. Nope--I wasn't about to walk out there with Wyatt attached to my knees and a baby on each hip. Can you imagine what Wyatt would do if I had no hands to stop him? I can--he would be right in the middle of such manly action! So, since I wasn't budging, a very nice man came over, introduced himself, shook my hand, and politely informed me they had knocked on my door (sorry, I don't answer in my nightgown!) and that my power would be out for at least 2 1/2 hours.

Huh? No electricity for how long? In over 100 degree heat? With Amelia's diaper rash? With the pee-soaked sheets and stuffed monkey stinking up the house? Not gonna happen. I immediately loaded everyone into the van, laundry basket full of pee sheets, monkey, and all... and drove to my mother's house.

Where else do you go when you're having a bad day? Home.