Chaos

My morning descended rapidly into chaos after the boys left on the school bus -- it's a good thing the oldest had unloaded the dishwasher.

First, I had to call my housekeeper (in Spanish) to tell her that the key would be at a neighbor's house because I would not be home.  Our conversation was cut off midstream, but we had covered all the important information, so I promptly made another call.

I had planned to go to work at a women's shelter with a friend and needed to see what time we were leaving.  No answer.

Which was a good thing because the doorbell was ringing.  I couldn't answer that right away, however, because the three-year-old was on the potty, yelling cheerily about his activities, and his calls had reached a fever pitch.

I dashed upstairs to make sure nothing untoward was happening.  False alarm, and I was sent packing by the three-year-old, who continued to holler out a blow-by-blow of his performance in the bathroom.

So then I opened the door.  It was the man who washed my car that morning; he was bringing me my change, returning a coffee cup, and wanted to chat (in Spanish) about the fact that next week he could use some rubbing compound on our car.

Great, but I had to run because the phone was ringing again.  Good-bye Manuel, thank you, dash to the phone.

It was my housekeeper again -- ever polite, she had called back simply to apologize for the break in the previous call and, inquiring politely and in an effort to help me with my Spanish, asked where I was going.

I thought about how to explain:  I'm going to a shelter for women and their families who are trying to break out of the sex trade.  We make beaded lanyards to sell to raise money both for the women and for the shelter.  They also learn trades like sewing, baking, etc.

I settled in Spanish for:  I'm going to San Jose with a friend.

She wasn't satisfied, and pressed for more details.  My Spanish was not up to the task.  I'm not sure what she understood me to say, but she helpfully provided the word "prostitute" when I stumbled, and along with me dredging up the word for "to help," she said she understood.  I'm not sure what she thinks we were doing this morning, but she approved.

I had to cut that call short because my three-year-old's cheerful yelling had taken on a plaintive tone, and he joined me where I was on the phone, minus several key articles of clothing, and with a suspiciously wet sock.

He had finished all that was necessary, and had apparently done some unnecessary things as well (hence the wet sock).  I didn't work too hard to untangle all the details; sometimes a mother just doesn't want to know.

So, a pair of dry socks and some clean clothes placed on the appropriate appendages and we were on our way.

Except for the crunching, grinding sound that met my ears when I tried to back out of the driveway.

It was a wheelbarrow; or what was left of one.  The groundskeeper for our condominio had parked it squarely behind my car and wandered off to have coffee.  The wheels still work, but he'll need a sledgehammer to make it usable again.

And it was only 8 a.m.

I think I'd just like to go back to bed.