Unscripted. This is for real.

Early morning light accuses my eyes that they are still open. The baby has called and crowed even before the rooster- if in fact we had one (which thankfully we do not.)

Dodging helicopters (of the maple tree variety) I sojourn down the drive way to rescue the damp rag that again discusses the physical abuse that teachers receive from their students over many pages. Praising God that I homeschool, I envision with heaven-like light my coffee maker.

Inside, I put down the newspaper on the stove and in the process spill a drink over it causing the electric ignitor to click. click. click. click. click. **** sigh*** At this point I should have taken the warm squirming bundle of love back to his bed and not left it. However due to various people's ineptitude I am driving 7 children to school.

After feeding and dressing the chicklets it is time to get in el van when the most dreaded word in all the world for anyone to hear is yelled.

FIRE

As if in slow motion I push past the towers of children (they are all starting to get startlingly tall) to see what is on fire. Dear eldest boy in an attempt to right the travesty of The Click and the Knob has lit the newspaper on fire and is valiantly trying to get it outside. I grab it throw it in the sink, douse it appropriately and (adrenaline pumping) attempt to recover from the site of the blazing inferno, while trying to soothe very agitated children.

Queue the phone.

Painter. We can come TODAY! In an hour! (I think: Not Monday with a weekend for me to prepare!?)

My face: Envision the old western of the woman tied to the railroad track watching the locomotive barrel toward her.

My response. "Sure."

Driving home in my office, masquerading as a gigantic freezer with 4 wheels and 15 seats, I retuen my friend's call- I had forgotten I had agreed to take care of her pets while she is away this weekend.

Crap. At least there is a cute bunny. (sneeeeze)

Next scene. After returning (1 hour later) from dropping the few that go to public school off it is reported to me by reliable sources that the dog has eaten the remaining donuts in the pack (chocolate) and all I can picture is the dog puking. Great. Something to look forward to.

Rushing upstairs I attempt to secret 3 years of beads, doll clothes, hair barrettes and dust before the glint of the windshield in the sun from the painters van tells me that I am too late. Looking forward to coming clean with them about my lack of preparation and poor warden skills (can't get the inmates to keep their cells clean) I meet them at the door with the beginning prickles of perspiration on my brow, on the back of my neck. I also realize that I am very tired. It is only 9:11 am.

The painter, who reminds me of the boy in high school who you could never take seriously because he was friends with all the girls, picks at the wallpaper, scrapes at the wall paper, wets, tigers, peels at the paper. No dice. He leaves to go to the Big Orange Money Pit to rent a steamer. All I see are dollar signs being torn from the walls. Laughing to myself that: who knew a house bought with wall paper on every blessed wall could be so expensive, I go on the rest of the day to knock over rice, sugar, burn an entire pot of rice, burn the steak under the broiler while attempting to simultaneously check homework and hold babies.

Noticing that the rain had not come in earnest I put the baby in the highchair near the dear eldest to retrieve (some peace) and columbine from the side bed. Flowers in the house are of great solace and joy to me- and boy did I ever need both today!! On my way back in the dear eldest son mentions that he has heart burn and proceeds to throw up by the swing set, outside.

"There goes lunch." He says. (He has always been a great puker with a hilarious sense of humor.)

Now: proceed with rubbing back, gathering of ginger ale and the rescue of dinner for the other 8 people I question the wisdom of carving the meat with such a sharp knife. Dare I trouble the angels to protect me from the steel?

I spend an hour happily playing with the 2 babies while dear eldest discusses Barbie anatomy- especially the alarming lack of pelvic feature that Ken does not have. (He queries: is Ken like part girl or something?) I explain it is like underwear- all squished down. HA! Disaster averted! We did not have to discuss Barbie's features at length as we were saved by the toddler ready for bed.

Two girls with no room to sleep in their room (due toe the painters). SLUMBER PARTY in the other girl's room! (on the stereo: well, not the stereo more like on the plush purple frog that raps "Hey shorty we're gonna party like it's your birthday..." played, like, 50 times.

May I live through tonight...