So This is What it Feels Like to be Pecked to Death by a Duck

What is it about the drive to and from church that brings out the worst in us? I remember hearing my dad say, "Geez!" multiple times on
Sunday mornings, as we were always late for one reason or another. I always swore that Sunday mornings would be the essence of tranquility when I grew up and had my own family.

Um, yeeeah.

Of course, I arrive late at everything. I usually blame my tardiness on my children; to be honest, I have found that my tardiness increases exponentially with each child. However, I have never been one to arrive early, and punctuality has always been a struggle of mine. Having children provides an easy excuse for tardiness. So, needless to say, we arrived at church late this past Sunday.

The real fun began on the way home from church. Just as we got all three kids loaded into the car, and we got on our way for the trek from Chevy Chase to Rockville, our baby started to cry. Caelyn gives absolutely no warning whatsoever when she is about to lose it. She goes from happy to super ticked in 5.2 seconds flat. And woe to us who fail to respond immediately to her demands. But, the poor thing is the third child, so it is her lot to cry for extended periods of time because her parents are too worn out/busy/overwhelmed/insane to actually respond to her cries. Believe me when I say that the Mommy Guilt over my poor third child is indeed a heavy burden for me.

So, Caelyn was wailing for a good twenty minutes when Simon, our middle child started to shout, "Mama!Mama!Mama!MAMA!MAMA!MAMA!!!MAMAAAAAAAA!!!MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I, the picture of motherly peace and tranquility turned around and shouted back, "What, Simon?!"

"Juice, please." (With Caelyn still screaming in the background.)

"Honey," I calmly said over the noise of Caelyn's screaming, "I do not have any juice in the car. I will get you juice when we get home." I turned back around and resumed trying to tune out my poor daughter's cries by staring out the windshield at the sky.

Suddenly, I was torn from my happy place with, "MAMA! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please!" And it just kept going, and going, and going. I couldn't even respond to him because he just kept shouting, "Juice, please!" over and over and over and over and over again! I am telling you, friends, that it felt like I was being pecked to death by a duck!

I turned back around, looked at Simon and heard myself exclaim, "Simon! How bout I just pull some juice out of my bunghole for you?!"

At that very moment, a hush fell over the car. The baby paused in her screaming. Simon stared silently at me. Chris' eyes grew wide. And I heard a quiet voice in the way back of the van. The voice of my four-year-old son. He said, "Bunghole." And then he chuckled.






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