Both kids have day camp this week. At the same remote location, but on opposite schedules. Because that's the way the world works. Little Kid gets dropped off at the front gate at 9 am. Big Kid gets dropped off at the back gate at 3 pm. 45 minutes later, Little Kid gets picked up at the front gate. Then Big Kid has to be retrieved at 9:30.
This necessitates three daily round trips to Arlington(ish), and a 45-minute holding pattern in the middle of trip #2 - a three-ring circus even if you aren't juggling (1) a grandparent in the hospital (my dad, who is being released tomorrow - praise God, on MULTIPLE levels), (2) a great-grandparent who needs attention while Nana is at the hospital helping Granddad, and (3) a much-anticipated visit from the Direct TV Fairy.
Today's installment of Family Fire Drill Theater begins in the front yard:
Spouse: Wait, stop. We need to make some decisions about our satellite service.
Me: No, YOU need to make some decisions about our satellite service. I have to take this child to camp.
Spouse: NO. THIS guy [stabbing a finger in the direction of the Direct TV Guy] just informed me that the "free" installation entails slapping two dishes on the roof, snaking cable all over the exterior of the house and punching multiple holes in the walls to access the various receivers. [Editor's note: It's never a good sign when your Spouse refers to someone as "THIS guy" when that guy is standing a few feet away.] Notwithstanding the fact that I SPECIFICALLY ASKED when I scheduled the service call if the wires would be routed through the attic as part of the regular installation. They told me yes. THIS guy is telling me no. If we want the wires pulled through the attic and the walls, AS GOD INTENDED, it's going to cost fifty bucks a pop.
Me: I don't want to pay fifty bucks a pop.
Spouse: Nor do I.
Me: But I don't want a disfigured house, either. Our house will look like it's being devoured by a giant sea creature.
Me: Our house will look like Bane's breathing apparatus. I don't want to live in Bane's breathing apparatus. Or in a squid house.
Meanwhile, Direct TV Guy stood there, looking unabashed - possibly a little confused.
We caucused. It's possible that I asked the Direct TV Guy if he was familiar with the Texas Deceptive Trade Practices Act and the concept of treble damages. A compromise was reached, and Little Kid and I got in the car.
Five minutes down the road, I realized that I had failed to feed the child breakfast.
STAY TUNED FOR TOMORROW'S INSTALLMENT OF FAMILY FIRE DRILL THEATER, when the Mom in a horrific lapse of judgment orders hotcakes for her seven year-old. To eat in a car.