Sometimes I’m pretty sure my family is a textbook case of being ruled by Murphy’s Law.
Mitchell’s very first speech therapy session was this afternoon. Because there’s a shortage of therapists in Dayton (along with every other medical professional), the only chance of us getting into therapy this summer was taking the 12:30 slot, even though that’s not an ideal time for us at all. It takes half an hour to get there, which screws up lunch, then it lasts for an hour, and after the half hour drive back we’ve already started eating into nap time. To be fair, I added another 20 minutes to that because Mitchell and I both needed a Chick-Fil-A fix after that. Oi.
Anyway. So. We had to leave at noon.
An hour and a half out, Mitchell’s dressed and ready to go.
An hour out, he’s naked, sneaking outside. I put his clothes back on him and we go play outside for a while. Where he promptly steps into the one pile of dog poop out there. Ok, just kidding, Kingsley’s been getting into the berries again, so there are probably way more piles out there than I thought.
Forty-five minutes out, I catch Mitchell playing his first game of hit the target. He took the bowl out of his little potty chair and set it halfway up the stairs. He sat on the step above it and was, shall we say, lining up his shot when I caught him and, luckily, stopped him.
Half an hour out, Mitchell’s dressed again and eating his macaroni and cheese.
Twenty-five minutes out, Mitchell’s naked again from the waist down and discovers the hazards of eating hot food naked.
Twenty-two minutes out, in preparation for his first speech therapy session, Mitchell very proudly exclaims, “Dammit!” when I drop a piece of his macaroni that I’m blowing on (see above mishap to see why he insisted that I blow on each and every piece of macaroni).
Twenty minutes out, Rosie decides she’s STARVING.
Fifteen minutes out, Rosie overfills her diaper and needs an entire wardrobe change.
Two minutes out, Rosie spits up all down my front. No time to change.
Zero hour, I discover Mitchell sitting in the driver’s seat with his yellow keys (leftover from our storage unit in Topeka, then claimed by Mitchell) in the ignition. Yet another argument ensues about whether or not Mitchell is 18 yet and able to drive.
Five minutes late, I discover that the only road through the base (which separates us from Beavercreek, where his therapy is) is completely closed due to a wreck. I have to drive around.
Ten minutes late, I get stuck in construction.
But we magically got there only ten minutes late. And we came away from his therapy session unscathed. I’m not sure how he’ll feel about going back next week, but we’ll tackle that when it comes.