It all starts with a good idea.
I bought a Lego set for the boys last week, in reward (two cheers for external motivation!) for their compliance during an impromptu trip to the orthodontist. Hooray! Legos for Everyone!
(I'm not good at Legos. I never intended to be the spatially-aware engineer of the family. But I'm improving.)
This Lego kit involved five (count them: five) characters from Cars 2, plus a giant spaceship. We had put together all of the little guys, saving the spaceship for last.
The box sat in the corner of the kitchen, only enticing the boys with its brilliance when they were either on their way to school or to bed. So I was forever the villain who bought them a toy and now won't let them build it.
This won't do.
I bought a canister of hot chocolate, 'tis the season, and I planned to foster a Lego frenzy after school. Bring on the fun: Mommy took her Xanax.
Except it just didn't come together the way I envisioned it . . . does anything, really?
We served the hot chocolate in the souvenir travel mugs from the springtime trip to Disney World. Someone shook his for extra stirring, or maybe just for emphasis, and it spouted through the top like a blow hole on a whale. Hot chocolate everywhere.
"Please forgive me, Mommy."
"Of course I forgive you, sweet boy. Let's clean it up. Here's a towel."
Another someone took a sip of his, the heat surprised him, and he spit it out on the floor. Here's a towel.
Someone dropped his next to the couch, so it spilled across the floor, under the coffee table and ottoman. Here's a towel.
In the cleaning, I repeatedly set the spilled cup on various surfaces, resulting in brown, wet circles on many a flat surface.
They had very sweet spirits about all these little mishaps. And they were ever ready with the towels, towels, towels.
Just as we had opened all the little bags of Lego parts and scattered them across the kitchen table, we realized someone had misplaced the directions. Now we had a thousand colored doodahs and no map to piece them together. (I am improving with Legos, but I'm not ready for a build-your-own adventure. Especially one that must function as a vehicle and match the picture on the box.)
I put all the Lego pieces in one ZipLoc bag. I secured all the lids on those blasted souvenir mugs. And I popped Polar Express into the DVD player.
All of those mishaps had been as eventful as successfully building a spaceship. Let's call it a day.
Afternoon matinee until dinner.