the little engine that could...or bleepin' couldn't, actually

Entertain me while I tell you about our day.

I know sounds. As moms, we hear what others don't. I hear and count the number of foot steps behind me. Scoot-scoot-scoot-scoot. Yes, Gabby and Lilly are both behind me. Any more or any less is reason for terror. Yes, I'm carrying Parker and he's jabbering non-stop, but the scoot-scoot-scoot-scoot is always being listened for. I know how the ting and scape of a little hand inside our dog food bowl sounds slightly different from the sound it makes from a dog's nose. It's less rustling and more tin sounding. I'm listening for it always, even though like tonight, I was three rooms away helping the girls get dressed. I'm no different than most moms, I suppose. 50% is attuned to the task at hand, 25% is pipped to hear sounds that signal trouble, and 25% listens for the worst case scenario: silence.

I can also hear my car acting weird. Not only can I hear it, but I can feel it drive differently. This is a new skill. Honestly when my better half is around, I'd probably not even notice if I had a flat tire for 2 days. It's crazy what you can be attuned too when you feel immense pressure. So, yesterday my car felt different. It sounded different. And from somewhere deep within my brain, I remembered it was the same issue that I had with my car last fall...sparks plugs. Or is is spark (without the s) plugs. Hmm...

So after a full 4 hours of sleep last night, my e's and I drug ourselves up to the dealership this morning, lookinng mighty sexy I might add. I checked the car in, explained the problem, told him what I knew was wrong (and didn't I feel so proud, don't cha know), and settled my kids into the kids play room. Side note, praise Jesus for the man (on second thought it was almost certainly a woman) who not only included a play room in the construction plans for the new dealership, but added a door to it to trap the little rugrats angels.

I got them settled at a table to eat their yummy McDonald's breakfast! (mommy fail #1). I sat down to my yummy drink because instead of an egg mcmuffin, they gave me a hashbrown. Thanks RM. I appreciate that. Jelly goes awesome with a coke. We played for about 2 hours. 2 HOURS! Do you know how many times children have to go to the bathroom during a 2 hour span, cause I do. About 4 times.

See my breakfast? It's that drink riiight at the bottom. 

Bathroom trip #2 was exciting. Lilly and P went with me. Gabby wanted to stay and play...proud momma moment #2. Lilly pottied and got up and I'm trying to help her when PLOP! Parker has thrown an ENTIRE ROLL OF TP into the toilet. (momma fail #3) It is one of those automatic bleepin' toilets (sorry...I just want to cuss lately) and it is about to attempt to suck down the ENTIRE ROLL OF TP. I'm not sure why I didn't allow that to happen. I mean it isn't my bathroom that is going to flood, but instead I reached in and got it and threw it in a trash can right by the toilet. So gross on so many levels. I could go into how the TP had made a splash that your's truly benefited from or explain the contents of said water, but that would be bleepin' disgusting!

Okay, so after scouring myself as best as I could in the little bathroom, we headed out. Lilly stopped at the water fountain. All was well. Everyone within sight of me was still under the impression that I had control. And then BAM! Parker's gone. Lilly looks like the cat that swallowed the canary. I'm all like, "Where's your brother?" And she's like "He went in there!" "There," my friends, was the bleepin' MENS bathroom! (mommy faily #4)

A woman who worked there quickly asked a guy to go in and help me with my son. Unfortunately, I've seen the type of anatomy that might be left hanging out in that bathroom and forgive me for saying that it's privacy wasn't quite as important as my son's safety so I already had the door open and was screaming politely encouraging my son to come out of the bathroom. You'll be happy to know that unlike my writing, there were no "dangling participals" in the bathroom at that time.

So a little more time goes by and they call me up and guess what?!? My car needs a new bleepin' engine! I was all like, "Excuse me. For a minute there I thought you said my 3 year old car needed a new engine." Probably because that. is. what. he. said!!!

Spark(s) plugs had malfunctioned or whatever again and if this happens twice, Honda recommends a new engine. He said they would have to order the parts and it would take a bit. Okay, like a few more hours. I'm not sure the bathrooms would survive, but we could make it. Ha. Ha. Ha.

"Oh, I"m sorry. I thought you just said you would be setting me up in a rental car." He did. "We have a Honda Accord for you ma'am." "Well, unless you want me to strap my little TP thrower/bathroom invader on the roof (which didn't sound like a bad idea at the time), I'm gonna need something just a smidge bigger." Blank stare. I was about to give them the option of putting us up at the dealership for the week in order to see how many rolls of TP we could go through and peeping tom charges my son could rack up, when they magically found a car that could fit our three gigantic carseats. For a week. Because unlike me, when he says something takes a bit, he's speaking in terms of days. Seven to be exactly. Quite a bit different than the few hours I was thinking. (Forgive me all my feminist heroes out there for me saying this, but there are times when I feel like such a stupid woman living in a man's world, where weeks are conveniently referred to as "bits").

Okay, so they hot-rodded us around to my broke down car so that I could get out the carseats. Can I just say this: You know that saying....the one about always wearing clean underwear because, well I'm not sure how the rest of the saying goes because I'm phase impared, but it has something to do with never knowing what the day holds? Well, forgive me for saying that my sweet little grandma, who used to always say that all the time,  never EVER took her car up to a dealership TOTALLY FULL OF CRAP and then had to remove all the carseats, revealing the mounds of stale, old, nasty grilled cheese, trash, and several other things I'll conveniently leave out of this post. She never had that experience because if she did, she'd know that it wouldn't even matter whether you were wearing ANY panties!! You time is much better spent cleaning out your bleepin' car and saving yourself loads of embarrassment, as opposed to making sure your undies are appropriate, cute, and freshly washed.

But I digress...

Did I mention what kind of car they gave me? These silly, yet helpful people sent me home in a brand new silver Honda Pilot almost exactly like mine. Of course it is pristine and smells more like new car than smelly G & L winter boot foot funk mine smells like. I'm almost certain they all cried when I drove off the lot. Lord knows that car will NEVER be the same. After taking out and reinstalling all the carseats and getting everyone situated, which took a measely 45 MINUTES (where in the bleepin' world is my husband?!?), we left out. Lilly, upon leaving, said "I readdy sank we should keep dis car kean because it's not readdy were's." Logic of a 4 year old. We should definitely keep the one we get to return immaculate and make sure we keep our's as nasty as possible. That way we can feel like dogs who roll in their own poop. Excellent idea Ms. Lil. (I know she was trying to be helpful. Humor, people. It's been getting me through this life as a military spouse for almost 10 years)!

Shaun, you were actually with us! This is Gabby's interpretation of you. You were on the white board inside the kids play area. Too bad those bad boy stick fingers you have couldn't help wtih the carseats! Notice the true to life hair depiction... ;)

Upon arriving home I realized that the irony of all ironies about this little situation I find myself in is that I can't even use that new garage door I had installed last week (which actually broke for the 15th time the day before Shaun left) because my opener is programmed into a button on my bleepin' car and therefore not with me. Update: after talking to Shaun (who can not believe all of this) he reminded me that my alarm key fob (is that how it's spelled) also opens my garage door. The brunette is only skin deep. Pure blonde underneath, folks.

Tequila was on the menu for tonight, but since I didn't have any pain killers to go with it and really do that trick, I settled for sweet tea. I also may have posted a facebook status that sorta challenged the universe:

"I'm a survivor. I'm not goin' to give up. In not goin' to stop. I'm goin' work harder! ...I say to a string of crazy events since Shaun's been gone, most recent my car needing a new engine. I'm WAY tougher than any of this, WAY more determined to get trough this even stronger! So universe, bring it on. Ill be giving it right back."

And although I probably should back off the universe provoking, I'm not quite ready to just yet. I've handled a fish tank multiple times, garage door, Internet modem, alarm key pad thing-a-ma-jig, and now car engine issues during the past 18 days. What's next? Toaster brakes. Yes universe, I see you a toaster and raise you a refrigerator because here's the deal: I'm a woman and while I may commit multiple mommy fails each and every day and do consider myself a stupid woman at times, I'm made of steel. Bleepin' steel. I'll handle this, anything else that comes my way, and all the regular things I have to stay on top of. I'll do it for however long it necessary. Backwards and in high heels if I need to. I'll do it with as much grace as I can bleepin' muster and probably on less that 4 hours of sleep as well. Just watch me! Military  generals wives really shouldn't be messed with. Just ask our husband's.

A little inspiration I found online...I'm not really into military poems and quotes and drama, but the day's events provoked a little googling and a little coming to terms with the fact that although this deployment may be "short," it seems likely that it will be as stressful as any other.

I wear no uniforms, no blues or greens.

But, I am in the military, in the ranks rarely seen.

I have no rank upon my shoulders. Salutes I do not give.

But in the military world is where I live.

I am not in the chain of command, orders I do not give or get.

But my husband is the one who does, this I can not forget.

I am not the one who fires a weapon, Who puts his life on the line.

But my job is just as tough, I’m the one who is always left behind.

My husband is a patriot, a brave and pride filled man.

And the call to serve his country not all can understand.

Behind the lines, I see things needed to keep this country free.

My husband makes the sacrifice, but so do my kids and me.

I love the man I married. The military is his life.

So I pledge to support my hero and stand among the silent ranks known as THE MILITARY WIFE.

Shaun Patrick Patrick Erickson, we miss you. I miss you. And for goodness sake the bleepin' car misses you! Come home soon!