I’ve never been much of a rule-follower. Not even a guideline-follower, really. I’d like to say it’s because I’m a rebel like that–and it might have been true, once-upon-a-time. But these days it’s more a product of the fact that while someone is telling me the rule, I’m most likely wrestling my $300 perscription sunglasses away from the Velcro-Monkey, or talking she-of-the-raging-hormones down from an anxiety attack, or keeping the Soundtrack from strangling the Narrator (or vice-versa), and even if it remotely registers that someone is imparting some sort of high wisdom, the chances of me actually processing, retaining, and later recalling it later are somewhat more remote than the chance of The Hubby buying into my whole “I’m not behind on laundry, I’ve implemented a just-in-time clothing inventory system” spiel. Which I’m sticking to anyway, if you’re interested….

What did this post start out as? Oh—rules. Right. I try to follow the obvious ones. Stick a big ol’ reflective sign in my face, and I’m on board. It’s those little rules of life that smack me upside the head, give me a wedgie, and steal my lunch money. Truth be told, my life veers so far from the ordinary that most of the rules out there don’t really apply to me. I mean, if I were in an accident, whether I had on clean underwear wouldn’t be nearly as relevant as the fact that I FINALLY got the mirrors all perfectly readjusted from the last time The Hubby drove the car—and now they’re going to be all messed up again.

One thing I know for sure is that the rules that would have salvaged one day will be, for the most part, completely useless the next, which might just be the single greatest contributing factor to my particular brand of incompetence.

So here are (in no particular order) an indeterminate (what–you think I have any idea how many there are going to be ahead of time?) number of rules I wish I had taken into account in the past 24 hours.

1. Not all drivers will automatically yield the right-of-way to pedestrians. Not even pedestrians with 4 children in tow crossing the parking lot in 25 degree weather.

2. “The Mixer” is not a 2-person appliance. While it might seem efficient for one person to plug the mixer in while the other attaches the beaters, mixer operation should be limited to one person.

3. Always make sure the mixer is in the “OFF” position before putting it away.

4. Always make sure the mixer is in the “OFF” position before attaching the beaters…even if it’s unplugged at the time.

5. When your pinky finger is stuck in the mixer beaters, screaming “OH S**T!!! WHYDIDYOUPLUGITIN???” could result in your 10 year-old son requiring lifelong therapy.

6. God really knew what he was doing when he put on our pinky fingers. He stuck ‘em on there really well….

7. Making 3 pies at once means any mistake in execution (for example, adding whole eggs instead of only yokes…hypothetically speaking, of course) results in 3 ruined pies.

8. “…without making a mess…” means different things to different people. Especially when eggs are involved.

9. When you drop a cookie, catching it between your leg and the cabinet to keep it from hitting the floor is a valid solution. When you drop an egg, notsomuch….

10. Never give a 10 year old boy a skillet as a tool for crushing peppermints. Unless, that is, you always thought that skillet was just a little too perfectly round to begin with.

11. A trailer hitch ball makes a perfect peppermint crusher.

12. Don’t drop your peppermint crusher on your toe.

13. If you are going to wear pajama bottoms and houseshoes out of the house, you need to be aware that there’s always the possibility that your car could break down, and you could be stranded on the side of the road for 2-1/2 hours waiting for a tow truck in pajama bottoms and houseshoes. In 30 degree weather. 20 minutes from home.

14. Always go to the bathroom before leaving the house. You never know when your car could break down, and you could be stranded on the side of the road for 2-1/2 hours waiting for a tow truck.

15. Wear real shoes. You never know when your car could break down, and you could be stranded on the side of the road for 2-1/2 hours waiting for a tow truck, and have to go to the ladies room so bad that when your hubby shows up you have to borrow his van to drive to the gas station to use the bathroom (leaving him there waiting for the tow truck) and end up having to walk into a public restroom in your houseshoes.

16. Even though modern headlights come on automatically, it is a good idea to familiarize yourself with the process of activating them manually in the event that you somehow bump something on the dashboard and inadvertently turn your headlights OFF while driving down a pitch-black, winding country road while being followed by your husband, who assumes your car has completely failed, and jumps to the conclusion that you must have subsequently suffered a heart attackand died, accounting for the fact that you drove across the opposite lane and almost into a ditch before finally smacking the right button and turning the lights back on. Hypothetically speaking, of course….

Tags: baking, beaters, eggs, guidelines, mixer, Narrator, right-of-way, rules, Soundtrack, The Hubby, velcro monkey

So the traffic clears, and now I’m explaining to the children that Elvis Presley did NOT sing Purple People Eater when I look at the clock and realize that because of our lunch stop at Chuy’s (I should really be getting some kind of kick-back for the promo) and the traffic jam in San Antonio, our five-hour drive from Austin to The Valley is going to take us eight hours. IF we don’t stop for potty breaks along the way (quit laughing–it could happen). Lovely….

Three pit-stops and 4,863 choruses of “Well I saw the thing comin’ outta the sky” later, we pull into the in-law’s driveway. The kids are bouncing with excitement to see their grandparents. So am I; my in-laws are awesome! I just wish they lived, well…somewhere else.

Every year as we prepare for the trip, I ask The Hubby to please talk to his dad about throwing some bromine tablets down into their cistern to kill the mosquitos. See, they have this old cistern left over from the days when there were no city services in their neighborhood. It serves two purposes: one, it makes my MIL’s yard an oasis of greenery in an otherwise barren landscape, as the ivy and various flora thrive on the moisture; and two, it provides a never-ending source of mosquitos. So this year when The Hubby finished talking to his parents on the phone, I asked not-too-optimistically, “Did you talk to him about the bromine?” He forced a smile and answered “Dad said there aren’t any mosquitos this year.”

Which would be great, except there are never any mosquitos any year. Until we get there, evidently. In the time it takes us to get from the driveway to the living room, Ethan already has six angry red welts rising up on his limbs. I assure him that my incredible mommy-foresight has led me to already write “Caladryl” on our shopping list for tomorrow.

The next day we head out for Torture. I mean Target. Although when you have four kids in tow, there’s really not much difference, is there? The Hubby tries to convince me to settle for the much-closer Wail-Mart, but I hold out. Then we pass a brand-new SuperTorture only a few miles away. I’m ecstatic–SuperTorture is way better than RegularOldTorture. Too late. The Hubby’s internal GPS is set on the old Torture, and resetting it to turn left HERE instead of continuing on 7 miles, exiting, turning right, and winding through three parking lots is only an option with the upgraded model. Which is, of course, out of the question (because this model is really, really cute). I smile. I’m on vacation. No worries, mon.

Now, the whole reason for the shopping trip–which is an annual tradition in and of itself–is that when you travel 560 miles for 10 days with 4 kids and 3 food allergies, you need your own food. Food that is available at SuperTorture. But not at RegularOldTorture. Horizon Organic Milk, people–is that too much to ask? Yes, yes it is…. I scrawl my list of “everything-I-couldn’t-find-and-will-have-to-run-to-Wail-Mart-for” in the margin.

As far as my children are concerned, the only reason to step foot inside a retail establishment is if there is the promise of visiting the toy department. The other 127,000 square feet are just wasted space. The 5 year-old is bored and wants to know when we’re going back to grandma’s. The 10 year old is angry because I won’t let him have a soda. The 4 year-old wants my undivided attention, and to get it he starts pulling clothes off of the racks onto the floor. And all the while they are narrating, soundtracking, and announcing. So my head is filled with “This is boring. When are we going to grandma’s? Why do we have to be here? Can I have vanilla milk? Look–that sign says….” and “bip-bip-bip-bip-bip-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-POP! POP! POP!” and “Mama…mama…mama…mama…mama…”

And they’re following me….

By myself, I have a hard time staying on task. You may have seen me in the grocery store–I’m the one talking to myself: “tomato sauce, cheese, Triscuits…tomato sauce, cheese, Triscuits…tomato–oh look, yogurt’s on sale!” Armed with a list I am still unable to achieve higher than a 87% task-completion rate. Add 4 children to the cart and I’m done for.

So by the time we’ve covered the whole store, I am a nervous wreck. Mason has messed up my hair and pulled off one of my earrings. Twice. The Soundtrack is fed up with The Narrator and is telling her so. The crease that runs down the bridge of my nose is deeper, and the left corner of my mouth is twitching uncontrollably. Then Mason decides he doesn’t want me touching HIS shopping cart, and procedes to pull my hands off of the cart handle shouting “NO! NO! NO!” At this moment, I am thinking what a waste of space having a Starbucks in Target is, and how much more relevant a tequila bar would be. A tequila bar with drop-in child care.

Ethan, my 10 year-old with a heart-o-gold, takes a break from fighting with his sister, steps up to the plate and says “Mom, I’ll push the basket for you.” That might be just what I need. I cede cart duty to my son and proceed to precede the basket.

It is worth mentioning at this point that one of the hallmarks of Down syndrome is “ligament laxity.” Basically, it means that their joints fit together loosely. In practical parenting terms, it means that they have the ability to reach behind them–far behind them–without rotating their trunk, enabling them to grab objects undetected. Objects like, oh…I don’t know…let’s say a six-pack of Sam Adams.

CRASH! Glass breaking, beer splashing, the other three kids screaming. Chaos. Complete and utter chaos. Except for Mason. He is a little island of tranquility, intently watching the reactions of the rest of his family. And why not? His work here is done.

A sea of red shirts descends upon our chaos with rags and mops and buckets. Which is kinda funny, because The Hubby is actually wearing a red shirt, so I’m sure passersby think he’s a slacker-employee, watching the rest of his teammates work while he watches. But I have to admit, the only thing I was thinking at the time was that only five of the six bottles broke, and since they weren’t labled for individual sale they were going to have to toss that last one anyway, so would it really be inappropriate for me to ask if I could have it? Because at this point I really needed it….

Next time: The actual reunion: Mason chasin’ and the rules as they apply to marriage and concussions….

Tags: announcer, beer, bromine, Caladryl, Chaos, Chuys, cistern, curse, Down syndrome, Food Allergies, GPS, ligament laxity, mosquitos, Narrator, organic milk, Purple People Eater, shopping list, Soundtrack, Super Target, Target, vacation