Move Sweet Move

We all have odd and hysterical things happen to us. But somehow, Miranda has odd and hysterical things happen to her ALL THE TIME. This woman’s family is like a walking accident. Fortunately for us, she writes all about it. Be sure to check out her first post for World’s Worst Moms (one word — Vaseline). And then peak into the rest of her crazy life with her very tall husband and three kids at Frantic Ravings of a Mother.

The last several weeks have been filled with frustration, elation and more fast food than a sensible person should force their body to digest. Boring details aside, Gigantor (my husband) was awarded for his slave labor with a much deserved promotion.  My prayers were answered (thank Ya JEEEESUS).

After staying in Georgia with Gigantor’s family for two weeks while he trained, celebrating Thing 2’s second birthday, and dropping more money than I’m comfortable with on a refurbished time bomb of a van, we made our way back to Miami, packed up our meager belongings, and headed to the city of our new home. . . with no place to live.

Traveling is fun. Traveling with three children, even better.

After hearing my name no less than 562 times in the span of three-and-a-half hours (and that was less than a third of our trip), the screams of accusations and pleas for help started to fall on deaf ears. That is, until I noticed that Thing 2’s cries were increasing in volume and desperation.

It was then that I finally listened to what he was trying to tell me, “Mama, HEP ME! HEP ME!” I finally turned around with an angry retort readied on my tongue, when I noticed that his right eye was glued completely shut. . . with a gummy bear. This isn’t the first time that those clever gummies have gotten the best of Thing 2. He strolled into my bedroom one morning with sleepy eyes and a gummy vitamin completely matted into his hair. That resulted in a slightly irritated semi-bald spot.

While awaiting our approval for the new apartment, we were kickin’ it in hell a hotel for two days. Having spent 6 months of the last year in a hotel, I was not at all thrilled to do it again. However, beds are beds. . . and sometimes beds are accident-creating apparatuses.  Especially when they’re occupied by an 8-month-old baby. When The Giant left for work, I decided to unload the sputtering, oil leaking, ticking time bomb from hell van. Feeling assured that Number 3 could not be greatly harmed amongst a myriad of soft pillows and cushy comforters (he hasn’t mastered the art of crawling yet), I left the hotel door open and began to unload the van. Of course, two seconds later I heard the muffled crying of Number 3, as he had rolled off of the bed. Because he was surrounded by so many pillows, a comfy cushion actually made it down before he did and softened his blow. The blow to my ego. . . not so soft. If only I would learn. Not 15 minutes later, I left him in the middle of the bed so that I could take a potty break. Run to bathroom. Sit down. Pee. Sigh. THUMP. Baby screaming. “Damn.” That’s right. Not once, but TWICE. Poor guy got a lump on his forehead and carpet burn on his nose.

Mother of the YEAR. After staying in the hotel for two days, we were finally able to move into our new place. I must say that I’m completely thrilled. God has been so good to us. Even throughout my whining and doubting, He’s still faithful. . . even when I’m not. This apartment has EVERYTHING that I could ask for. The living room is gigantic, and the kitchen is beautiful. Our bedroom is spacious and has a nook for our desk. There is also this small device that resembles a nurse’s “call” button in the master bedroom. It is attached to the wall with a long cord. What can I say? I’m a curious person. With all of the updates of our fancy new apartment, I figured that it was part of the surround sound.

“Hey Honey, what does this do?” Click. Sirens. Screaming. Someone call Harold Camping because the apocalypse was NOW upon us and I had started it! Before I depressed the doomsday device, I was plopping Number 3 onto a pillow (I wisely chose the floor this time) so that I could pop a bottle into this mouth. Immediately after pressing the aforementioned button, the bottle went flying across the room and I shot up faster than I thought was possible. Number 3 probably sustained some sort of whiplash from my rapid ascension. I somehow managed to throw myself down the staircase without receiving a splintered femur or a broken ankle and tried in vain to punch in an unknown code to silence the alarm.

Apparently my children thought that I had abandoned them to the banshee. Thing 2 stood at the top of the stairs, white knuckled from clutching the railing while screaming, “HEP ME! HEP ME! HEP ME!!!!!!” Thing 1 was running around like a chicken with no head, and Number 3 was mad that I had thrown his bottle to where he couldn’t retrieve it. At that glorious moment, Gigantor ran into the apartment and asked me which of the boys pressed the panic button. When I didn’t answer, he realized that I had done the George Jetson. . . and I did what I always do at the worst moments possible. I laughed. Really hard.

Waiting for the alarm to turn off was the loudest minutes of my life. I fully believe that whoever coined the name “panic button” did so by pure accident. Because that was the immediate emotion that was created. . . and it sounds much better than the “I just pooped myself” button.