As I’ve mentioned repeatedly all over this wee corner of the world wide web, I dig being a girl. A lot.

But yesterday, not so much.

I was at work, minding my own damned business, when I was attacked. By my own insides. And they were pissed. My instinct? Move through the pain. As if I were in a friggin yoga class or something. So, I ever so slowly, got myself over to the bathroom. Because, as I tell my kids, if you have a belly ache, it usually goes away after you poop. Right? Yeah, bad call. Bad, bad call.

That set off all little gangsters armed with shards of glass who were camped out in the right side of my oh-so-bloated abdomen.

I couldn’t stand up straight. I couldn’t zip my pants. I couldn’t control the tears shooting down my face.

It hurt like a mofo.

Here’s the thing: it was 11am and I was at work.

I called my OB/GYN all set to blame my stupid IUD who, clearly gave the little gangsters inside me their marching orders. But, my OB passed me off to my internist (”sounds like appendicitis…or something…”). My internist passed me off to urgent care. Which is all well and good except that I was making these calls doubled over in pain and oh my God don’t put me on hold again and I’m crying at work you assholes and there’s no way in hell I can drive myself over to urgent care and who the hell is going to pick up my kids at 3 this needs to be resolved ASAP and jeezus! I’m standing up crying with my pants unzipped at work.

I called my husband. He left his job and came to save me. Immediately. Because he’s the awesomest.

12 pm: He took me directly to the ER. He held my hand while I screamed in pain, with my pants unzipped, sitting in a wheel chair, in the ER lobby, waiting for triage.

The little gangsters were waging a war. On my ovary.

I was forced to tell my story like 18 times to 18 different people: I’ve been bloated and farty since Tuesday no I’ve only had a cup of coffee and chocolate covered almonds to eat this morning yes they’re delicious and yes I have a UTI I mean no I have an IUD not a UTI the pain started at 11 am no I’m not allergic to any meds I know I should try to drink more water I don’t remember when my last period was wait it is 10 days ago PLEASE don’t touch me no I can’t lie back you moron, I’m doubled over in pain seriously you’re gonna screw up the IV? Ouch, c’mon really? That’s not where the damn needle goes, haven’t you done this before? Wait, no…pain…ahhhh.

I love morphine, don’t you?

Wait! Who’s gonna pick up my kids?

And after four hours of unpleasantness including a lovely enema, I was discharged with a script for percocet and a directive to call my OB/GYN. Because it wasn’t appendicitis, people. An ovarian cyst that I didn’t know I had blew up.

But I’m feeling much better now. And my kids were protected the whole time. They weren’t inconvenienced in the slightest. Blessed be babysitters with cars. And damn these girly parts!

I’m freaking out. See the whole turning five thing means all kinds of things I’m not ready for.

Namely kindergarten.

And while I know he’ll (my eldest son) be fine and make friends and learn cool new shit and get great progress reports, I am totally screwed. Because I have to figure out how to get my little one to pre-school, my big one to public school, and my own fat ass to my office.

By 8:15. (Hey, Work Life Flexibility. I’m Kami. I’ve friended you on Facebook, and yet, not much has changed between us…)

We already wake up at the butt-crack of dawn. I already benefit from my husband making their lunches so I can…er…shower. (That’s a blatant lie. I rarely shower in the mornings. Alright, jeez, you got me. I rarely shower. Shut up.) I have a PhD in Scheduling and Strategizing from the University of There’s Way Too Much Shit In My Brain, but for the life of me, I can’t figure this one out.

I’m stumped.

And then, there’s the whole After School Pick Up Debacle. Again with the two separate locations. And two separate sets of extended hours.

I’m not the only person on Earth who works and has small kids, right? And umm, don’t daycares exist so people can go to work? What’s with the bizarro hours? Some of the places in my area open at 9 and close at 2:30. Really. HOW EXACTLY IS THAT HELPFUL? And thanks, public schools, for your early dismissal Wednesdays, and your Teacher Workdays (yes, yes, as an educator I totally hold those days dear, but as a working mom? Not so much.) and your effing snow days…what free help do you have lined up to hang with my kids while I make the proverbial bacon? Hmm?

And just to prolong this rant, Hello, daycare? I’m paying you. A lot. Do you think you can maybe encourage your staff to like show up ON TIME? For instance, if you open at 7am, couldja, perhaps, ACTUALLY OPEN AT 7am? PRETTY PLEASE?!!!

By the way, socialized childcare? Consider me on the bandwagon. I’d also like to sign up as head cheerleader.

And thus, I’m freaking out. (For the record, it’s entirely possible that my freak-out is due in part to the fact that global warming is totally messing with my homeostasis. Here in New York, I actually saw a cherry blossom blossoming. AND IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE FRIGGIN’ WINTER HERE IN THE NORTHEASTERN PORTION OF AMERICA!). But I prefer to blame childcare issues as I’ve already hexed my Seasonal Affective Disorder…

How do you do manage it? The childcare/school thing or this totally sci-fi meteorology? You choose. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

My car (it’s a Honda Element) is awesome. Really, I love it. First of all, it’s orange. And the ceiling is high so I can stand up in the back to buckle my kids in. The interior is made entirely of rubber and plastic which means if I wanted to, I could unleash a hose into it. Just think about that for a second. Unleashing the power of a hose inside of a car.

Hawt, right?

I haven’t mustered up the balls to do it yet. But I should. Because my car is disgusting.

And…I blame my kids.

Especially for all the empty Starbucks cups and sleeves. My 3 and 5 year olds are totally addicted to coffee. And chai. And…er…green tea lattes. And vanilla rooibus lattes. And cafe mochas…

(Ok, ok. That’s all mine. It’s a medical condition. You know. The one where I NEEEEEEED caffeine. You have it to, right?)

But the empty organic chocolate milk boxes? The crappy, useless, little paper bags that once held tiny chocolate donuts or vanilla bean scones? The snotty, balled up 100% recycled brown paper napkins? Yeah. That’s all them.

The seventy stuffed animals that have found their way into my car but not out? Also them.

The five years worth of crumbs, raisins, beach sand, and unidentifiable, sticky sludge that’s hidden (and not hidden) in the crevices between where the baby car seats and the actual car seats meet? Not me. Them.

If I wasn’t hauling 16 bags in and out of the car every time we get in and out of the car, it’d probably be much cleaner. It’d be cleaner as well if I just invested in one of those shitty little “car trash cans.” Or, a dustbuster. But I won’t. ‘Cause I like to live in the shit.

The grit makes my life feel more urban. And also, I’m certifiably insane. I mean busy.

Please stop laughing at me.

Now.

My three year old woke up soaking wet in the middle of the night last night. Twice. Ok, the first time it was only 9:45. But I’d been asleep for a good half hour there. Only to wake up to a little voice whining, “Mommy, I’m wet! I’m wet! My pjs! Mommy!” I changed my little man, changed his linens, made him try to pee in the potty and sent him on his way.

The instant replay was at 2 a.m.

Waking up this morning at 6 was. a. bitch.

BUT…we had big plans for today. We were going to go green and take the train down to the Aquarium. See how fun that is? A morning dedicated entirely to trains and fish? I know. I am Super Mom. So after I gave it to those damned kids for waking me up so friggin’ early, I had my coffee, gathered the necessary myriad supplies, and we were off.

But…I had to park illegally. Because we were about to miss the train. We practically raced it to the platform.

On the train, we had a lovely time, reading books, looking out the window, eating pretzels and drinking water. Until, my three year old began convincing me that no, he hadn’t peed in his pants. It was…the rain. That wet his Thomas underwear. Right in front of his penis.

Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.

We got off the train, 30 minutes later and went directly to the bathroom. By then the rain had stopped and the dawdling was in full swing. My guys milked that 10 minute walk from the station to the Aquarium for 25. My three year old is a slow walker. Especially when holding an umbrella.

We hung around the Aquarium for about 40 minutes. At which time I realized that if we didn’t have lunch RIGHT NOW we’d miss our train back home. And the trains conveniently run every hour. So I dragged 30 pounds of kid in one hand and 50 pounds of kid in the other from the awesome Surinam toad exhibit to the cafeteria. Where I forced those children to scarf down hot dogs and fries. And my kids are all laughing and joking with each other. While I’m sweating, cursing under my breath and checking my watch every six seconds. Because if we miss this train, there will be no nap time. And that CANNOT happen.

So, we race back to the train station. The 10 minute walk is 7 minutes this time because I half carry, half race my three year old the whole way. As we arrive at the platform, we hear last call for our train. We run down track 3 to catch it. But our train is on track 1. So we run all the way around to track 1. My hair is crazy-looking and sweat is pouring off my face. My three year old’s shoe has fallen off, and my five year old is so far ahead at this point that I see the conductor asking him where he’s headed.

See the fun, people?

Finally, we get on the train. I throw the kids onto a bench. We down some water. We read some books. The ticket agent gives each my kids a quarter for being cute. And we make it back home in time to grab some ice cream.

Thank Gawd I rushed. I mean really. Stress-free fun? No such thing.

This morning, I woke up irrationally angry. It was 5:45am. And my three year old was screaming and crying and throwing his body around and yelling, “I WANT TO WAKE UP! I WANT TO WAKE UP!” because I’d stupidly told him to go back to bed. Did I mention it was 5:45am? (Better than 5, but still…)

He clearly wasn’t going back to bed. So, I sort of yelled a bit myself. “EITHER STOP CRYING OR GO BACK TO SLEEP!” As if I were offering him actual options, right? I mean, screaming and crying is way more fun than sleeping.

Right?

Who wouldn’t want to jump out of bed at the ass crack of dawn on a day they could conceivably sleep until noon?

Oh, wait. Kids don’t learn that til college or something.

I was so irrationally angry about waking up early to the sound of my child’s crazed tantrumming, that after yelling that ridiculous ultimatum, I actually punched a door. With my fist.

Be afraid, people. Be very afraid. This is what happens to me when I don’t get my required 8+ hours of sleep a night.

For like 6 years straight.

I wish I were one of those psycho-geniuses who operate optimally on 4 hours of sleep. (Yeah, I’m totally calling Thomas Edison a psycho-genius. You wanna piece of me?) But, alas. I’m not. And going to bed at 9pm seems, well, scandalous, when there’s a perfectly good Twilight book taunting me from the bedside table.

Don’t worry. My three year wasn’t freaked out in the least. He laughed at me, in fact. Yes, my punch was that inadequate that it made a three year old laugh. This experience taught me that I could not possibly defend myself against a bad guy if the need arose. On the flip side, my hand is totally ok.

Admittedly, punching doors before sunrise seems like a warning sign. Of something. I’m not sure what. I let you know more after I sleep on it.

At some point.

It wasn’t raining when I left the house. I swear to God it wasn’t. But I had so much on my mind, it’s possible that I just didn’t notice.

See, it was a field trip day. My five year old son was going to go on a school bus with his teachers and friends to pick apples. Cute, right? Yeah, I thought so too. Until I noticed this, right in the middle of the field trip form:

Parent chaperones must arrive no later than 8:15.

I wasn’t chaperoning. Should I be chaperoning? Does not chaperoning mean I’m a crappy mom, or just a crappy chaperone? Will my kid be mortally wounded if I don’t chaperone? Will my kid even notice that I’m not a chaperone? Don’t you think the word chaperone is weird?

I corralled my kids and my guilt into the car. My son looked up at me and said, “Mommy, are you going to come on the field trip too? It’s gonna be super fun!”

Oof. He may as well have knifed me from behind.

So I gave him a hug and a kiss and told him he was going to have the awesomest time ever and that I had to go to work, but couldn’t wait to hear all about it. I told him all the cool kids go apple picking and apple picking with friends is for rock stars and he’s a rock star and should thus totally go apple picking with his friends.

It was then, as we were driving to school, that I noticed the rain.

I’d grabbed the lunches, the nap bags, the school bags, my work bag, my water bottle and stuffies for kids to nap with. But, I hadn’t brought anyone any raincoats.

I was sending my kid on a field trip that I was not chaperoning in the rain without a raincoat.

After I dropped my babes off, I called my husband. “It’s raining. Sydney’s field trip is today. He doesn’t have a raincoat.”

“What kind of mother are you anyway?”

Ok. He totally didn’t say that at all. I actually have no idea what he said. Because all I heard was “what kind of mother are you anyway?”

I was at work when I got the email from his school saying the field trip was cancelled. First, I sighed with relief. Then, I realized that left me a kid with no raincoat and no apples and no chance of being a cool rock star.

We channelled Johnny Cash when we got home. We rocked Fulsom Prison. (Of course, I bleeped out the inappropriate references to drugs, booze, and woman…sort of…)

We’ll go apple picking as a family on Sunday. With raincoats. Just in case.