there should have been a memo.

We got up with plenty of time to get to church at the appointed hour.  People were fed.  People were dressed.  People's hair got did.  Well, my hair got itself did, and even if that's the only hair that's did, we're calling that a win.  Shoes were being put on and tied when I noticed that nothing Miss O was wearing was a) clean, b) matchy-matchy, or c) fit her.  I decided to call out the clean and ill-fitting garmentry.

Me:  Gentle Calling Out of Ill-Fitting and Stained Clothing

Her:  MEGA-FREAKING-CRAZY-ASS-FLIP-OUT.

Me:  Slightly Less Gentle Calling Out of Both Clothing Issues and Behavioral Blowout

Her: I HATE YOU, YOU PSYCHO CRAZY PERSON WITH NO SENSE OF STYLE.

Me:  Those Clothes Are Fine For The Mud Pit But Not So Much For Church.  

Her: GRATUITOUS RETURN-FIRE SCREAMING

Me: etc., etc.

So she changed her shirt.  Now the ensemble included a (yes, also stained) Habitat for Humanity t-shirt, men's size large in robin's egg blue, the same ridiculous skirt that was sliding southward, and puddle boots.   Same conversation, lather, rinse, repeat.  Child returns with a sweater vest that hits a good inch above her belly button, which also exacerbates the situation because now we all can view the undergarments which reside below the south-slipping skirt.  

New! Conversation!  Visible belly buttons and visible undergarments are not appropriate to wear in public, especially in church.  Have you ever seen me with my belly button or undertrou hanging out in church?  Grandma?  Anybody?  I think not.  Well, except that one teenaged girl who has a serious Proper Foundation Garment Situation going on, in addition to a Proper Location of the Hemline Situation going on.  We're using her as an example of WHAT NOT TO WEAR.   

There was no further attempt at compliance on her part, so I chose a very appropriate and adorable outfit and  dressed her like a Kewpie doll and kicked her ass out the door to church.  

At church?  The boys were horrific.  I WANT TO FINGER-KNIT!!!! in the middle of silent praying.  Hello, there, underside of the pew, you're looking good!  Running, screaming, general jackholery.   It was unreal. 

They were even worse once we got home.  Beating the crap out of each other, running away, knocking Elliott into mud holes, hitting each other with thorn sticks, more dropping of the eggs, chasing chickens, refusing to wash the eleventy seven pounds of mud off, kicking me in the face with their wretched muddy feet when I (so, so gently) carried them up to their beds.

All the while, my phone was dinging with updates from the Effbooks:  

DING!!! My sweetie-honey-pies made me honey whipped cream topped chai lattes in bed.  

DING!!!  I haven't changed a diaper ALL!  DAY!  

DING!!!  MMMMmmmmm.... chocolate covered strawberries!  

DING!!!  My kids love me!  

DING!!! My kid did what I asked whilst singing "happy mother's day, my dearest darlingest motherest!!!"

Oh.My.Word.  I did not tell my children it was effing Mother's Day.  I'm not really into the whole "It's Mother's Day, so you little shits should get your acts together and be nice to me."  What I *AM* into is the whole "you live in this world so you should get your acts together and be nice in general".  All your ding-dong-ey-ness was making me a little bit jealous, though. all you people with cute, nice children who were well-prepped to be superty nice to you on effing Mother's Day.

Finally, at 2:30 in the afternoon, The Mister arrived home from work, the three boys were on Mandatory Nap that was going to last until I had taken a lovely nap, and then, and only then, would they be allowed out of bed.  I had my first cup of coffee of the day, with cream and vanilla bourbon sugar, and I was on the sofa under my superty comfy cozy loving quilt that has no elbows and does not climb on me.  I took a sip and closed my eyes.  I sighed.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, Elliott was charging up to me, and head butted my full mug of boiling hot coffee from underneath so that the entire cup of coffee flew up in the air and then down the front of my shirt.

I ripped my clothes of faster and louder than a stripper in a rage comic, threw the baby at the husband and buried myself back under my superty comfy cozy loving quilt that has no elbows and does not climb on me and also does not spill hot coffee on my breasts.  

And then I napped.  

Happy Effing Mother's Day, y'all.