Why We Ate At Baja Fresh Last Night

Yesterday was going along swimmingly until I looked at the clock.

And realized how little time I had until time to take Braeden to swim practice.

I sat down to correct schoolwork with thoughts of Other Things I had not yet accomplished buzzing around my head like angry bees.

Then I had incomplete schoolwork from BOTH kids.

More angry bees.

About that time Adam called. He had questions for me then wondered how I was. It didn't take him long in the conversation to realize that a meltdown was imminent. He told me he would come home and fix everything and not to worry.

I love it when he says that. Most of the things aren't fixable by him but I love that he truly would fix everything if he could.

I told him I needed to go. I needed to get the kids inside and get them to clean up.

He cautioned, "I'll talk to them about the school work. Just stay calm with them."

And I really intended to.

Until they came in, dirty and noisy. Usually there are two options outside for playing surfaces, grass and pavement. With the construction-site-that-was-formerly-the-field, there is now a lot of dirt. And that draws Mark like a siren song.

His face, t-shirt, shorts, arms, legs, hands and feet were covered in muddy dirt. He leaned back against the couch, planting two muddy hands on its surface to kick off his shoes. He kicked about a gallon of dirt and gravel out of each shoe (do you measure dirt and gravel in gallons?).

And that, my dears, is when I lost it.

I quick-stepped Mark into the bathroom and thrust his filthy little hands into the sink. I yelled at him to GET upstairs and GET clean clothes on (all while holding his hands under the water to clean the dirt off).

It was lovely.

I really am a fabulous mother I think.

Braeden and Emma could smell danger in the air and they were zipping around and tidying up the downstairs.

I sorted shoes from dirt and swept up the dirt.

You could have planted corn in my front hallway.

I took my frustration outside and banged shoes together, sending sprays of dirt in all directions. Each staccato bang bang helping me get a grip a little bit more.

Mark came back downstairs, penitent, in his green pajamas and a tentative smile.

And I felt penitent too.

I don't like my angry self.

I gathered up Braeden and we went to swim practice. As we were driving away, I realized in my distraction, I had left the sweet potatoes on the counter, all scrubbed and wrapped in tin foil, ready to bake in the oven while Braeden was swimming.

I had Braeden call Emma.

I carefully, carefully, explained to her (because she, like Amelia Bedelia, has to have things spelled out) how to start the oven, how to get it to the right temperature. I had her put the potatoes in right away, even while the oven was preheating. I wanted to make it easier for her, to remove a step.

The plan was when Adam got home, he would grill the pork chops and we'd have a lovely meal.

Adam called me when swim practice was about over.

There was a problem with dinner.

When the oven had beeped (after three and a half minutes) to indicate it was preheated, Emma had turned it off. She didn't want to overcook those potatoes.

So our sweet potatoes had cooked for exactly three and a half minutes.

Adam said, "What do you want to do about dinner."

And that's how we ended up at Baja Fresh. Adam and Emma and Mark met us there. Mark in his pajamas. I hugged them all and apologized for my temper and we ate shrimp tacos and bean and cheese burritos and went home to our zucchini cake, secure in the fact that just like uncooked potatoes and dirty shoes and mom's tantrums, things usually do work out in the end.