By Julie Hoag
Birthday party prep days can be rough, mamas. The crazy day can make your blood boil no matter what your blood type. It was my son’s seventh birthday party day. Join me as I recount how I started out rockin’ it at blood type A+ and tumbled the hills and valleys of the day to crash at type O (aka zero) blood boiling point.
At the start of the day, I’m in A+ range; I’m rocking it. I’m plowing my way through the cleaning and prep for the evening party. I’ve got the cool, clean blood of a Rockstar Mama. That is until I realize a tragic flaw. It dawns on me I forgot paper plates.
Damn! I need to go to the store.
The Beginning of the Downfall
Mamas, you know this drill: shopping with multiple kids equals agony. The kids get wild and obnoxious at the store. I feel my blood temperature rising, the first sign of it starting to boil. I’m slipping down into the AB blood type range. I want to run screaming from the store.
I begin to daydream of a glass of wine — no, make that a bottle — to relax with.
Can’t they put in a wine bar in here?
Boys are a loud species and their laughter is cute, of course, but geez, they get rowdy. They bump into each other on purpose and guffaw. They step on each other’s toes, which results in yells. They thin down my patience with incessant shrieks and jabs at each other’s bellies.
I glance around, wondering who we’re pissing off, and I realize I don’t care; the kids are pissing me off. I tell them to quit. I threaten a little too loudly to put the cookies back on the shelf. My patience unravels as they obey for twenty seconds and do it again. I swear they repeat it just to piss me off. Going to the store with three boys is oh-so-unhealthy for my patience. I get louder and shorter with them. I’m slipping into the B range in a jiffy.
They beg for chips and sports hats. They pelt me hard with wishful nagging for electric scooters. They want fiery hot candy and strawberry gum. They want vanilla yogurt and chocolate chips. Beef jerky bags literally fly off the shelves into their hands like magnets.
“Can we have this?” flails instantly from their lips as they show me the jerky. I feel the O range choking in on me. Blood is beginning to curdle.
I reluctantly buy the $12.00 jerky bag and wonder why I’m buying a snack we don’t need. What kind of jerk made dried out meat cost as much as a fresh steak.
I’m dangerously close to hitting the zero range when I lose my patience.
“Stop it!” I whisper through gritted teeth. “Stop it now!” I say louder. Loser blood type O is upon me.
The patience runs from me and I chase it, but damn, I can’t catch it.
I can’t get it back.
I’m freaking out, shrieking at the kids to pipe down while I’m piping up. They are laughing and cajoling as if frolicking on turf football fields with cherry suckers. It’s the best time ever!
I’m frantic. Checking my list on my phone so I can hurry up and get out of there asap. I need an escape plan.
I let a yell slip: “Let’s get the hell—oh, there is Mrs. Anderson, your teacher. Wave hi.”
I wave demonstrating the action for them. Distraction still works great on elementary school kids. Mamas, keep that muscle toned as the kids age. My mom brain saves the day and turns it into a safe comment. At least I didn’t yell “Hell” in the store in front of the teacher. Whew! Hello, little slip up, but I rocked the save.
But I’m O — for sure here.
I’m shaking, I’m so frustrated with these boys. The fart sounds and butt talk, the loud, unexpected shrieks. Adding insult to injury, the youngest announces it’s an emergency and he needs the bathroom right now. It’s on the other side of the store from our location.
Really?! He didn’t have to go ten minutes ago when we walked by the bathroom.
It’s all pushing me to the boiling point. O — Blood boiling point. I abandon the item I was searching for that wasn’t on my list because we need to hustle over to the bathroom for Mr. Sprinkler to water the metal stall wall. I’m screwed. The item wasn’t on my list, so I will never remember it, as least not while in the store. That annoying nugget will reappear in my brain once we are home.
Take me home, mini-van. Be my savior.
We make it home. The party time is fast approaching.
The birthday boy pulls out the foot rest on the couch and proceeds to pinch his finger. He screams bloody murder and even the 13-year-old emerges from his man-cave room to see what’s going on. His finger is pinched between two metal bars under the couch foot rest. I manage to help him free his finger. We both get metal slivers embedded into our flesh. All this after falling off his scooter and scraping his arm earlier in the day. I’m dwelling in the O blood mom range now. I set him up to rest on the couch with his iPad before his party. He says he’s having a bad birthday party day.
I say I know the feeling. What a day, and we haven’t even had the birthday party yet with twelve wound-up boys. Yippee.
At the end of the day, though, I’m an A+ blood type mom because my blood boiled, curdled, and I exploded, yet I still rocked the birthday party with the hubby’s help. We stayed on schedule, got it all done, and all the kiddos had a blast.
Now for that bottle of wine…I’m gonna crush it.
She is a writer, a wife, a mother of three boys, and a mama also to furry babies: two rescue dogs and two guinea pigs. Julie writes on her blog about antics and life with all males in the house (the bathroom never stays guest ready for more than an hour), motherhood, kids, family, parenting, faith, baking & hybrid vegetarian/meat recipes. Her essays/posts can be found on Sammiches and Psych Meds, Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, Her View From Home, The Mighty, Parent.co, Manifest Station, Good Mother Project, & her own blog juliehoagwriter. Julie has survived working as SAHM, a pediatric nurse, a scientist, and a veterinary assistant. AFTER working on writing, she can be found feeding and cleaning up the messes of the 3 boys & fur babies. She loves dark chocolate, aged Wisconsin cheese, and red wine. Follow her on her blog, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.