Last week, in my quest for bestowing TMI on my tweeples, I sent this message:

Wearing capris. Trying to decide if I should run and quckly shave the bottom half of my legs or just change into jeans. #tmi ? Sorry.

After careful thought -after all, you shouldn’t impulsively wield a razor willy nilly- I decided on shaving.

Note: I sent this tweet at 2:30 in the afternoon.  I had been dressed for seven hours, I just happened to notice the forest when I sat down to nurse the baby.  Which is also, pretty much, when I tweet.  I don’t know why I felt the need to shave.

It’s not like I was going anywhere.

Things went south from there.

See, in a big family, when things are good, they are very, very good.  And things go bad, they are horrid.

I dropped an egg while making dinner, and the baby crawled through it.  The toilet stoppered up briefly.  Miss C was having a particularly challenging afternoon, and her method of informing the world about the indignities she suffered involved screaming.  Lots and lots of screaming.

I should have called it a day right then and put everyone to bed.

Unfortunately, it was not quite four o’clock at this point.  And, honestly, my house is loud and busy and this series of unusual events was not… that unusual.

Still, I thought I’d complain about it.  So on facebook, I wrote:

Last 20 minutes of my life: drop egg, cover with salt. Form meatloaf. Wash hands (WH), drag baby out of salty egg. WH & baby. Clean up egg. WH Put meatloaf in oven. Get baby out of dishwasher.Check math homework. Break up fight between 3 and 4 yo.Break up fight between 4 and 11 yo. Get baby off of stool. Bleach sink.WH.Go upstairs.Swap laundry. No wonder I’m tired.

Nah nah nah, Mr. Murphy’s Law.  That was a double dog dare directed right at you.

I put the meatloaf in the oven.  Six pounds of grass fed ground bison.  It was a beautiful thing and if I do say so myself, I make a durn good meatloaf.   Of course I forgot to preheat the oven, but meatloaf goes for a couple of hours so no biggie.  Turn it on and forget it.

I headed upstairs.  Usually, if kids are screaming they’re okay.  It’s when the house gets deathly quiet that I get scared and mentally try to account for all the Sharpies.

I discovered that the 4 and 3 year old were fighting over a bath.  An unauthorized bath that they decided to give themselves, two Barbies, and six cars.  For some reason, my oldest child decided to simply observe the little kids start the tub instead of snitching.  And of course the one time he decides to be peaceable is the time when I needed him to tattle.

Baby A followed me, of course, and got wet, too.  I spent some time wrangling naked children and wet babies and fending off the boys who took too long doing their school work and needed me to check their math rightthisveryminute.

Back down to the kitchen to rustle up some kids to peel potatoes, my favorite thing to delegate.  Hmm.  The oven says it’s only preheated to 140 degrees.  It’s warm, but I can easily put my hand inside.

Seriously?  Now the oven decides to go out?  Well, at least I’m not expecting anyone for dinner.  Mr R begs to go to a restaurant but I am resolute.  I am tired.  I don’t want to find twenty shoes (well, 18.  I always wear my shoes in the house.  It’s self defense) and go out to eat.  I am staying in tonight.

I flip it to the broiler, which heats up quickly.  I switch it back to 400, and the temperature seems to be rising.  Ok.  Just a small glitch, no problem.  I’ll send my landlord an email about it in the morning.

Still, that puts dinner a couple of hours behind.  The meat’s gotta cook, because it’s already started, but I kick around the idea of ordering pizza for dinner.  Pizza that will come to me.

Baby A is ready for her nap, and our current routine is for me to nurse her while I sit on the couch and surf the internet.  Send my Mother of Year medal right away.  She falls asleep, the littles have a snack then watch some TV (probably Emergency!, Mr X’s current favorite show), and I have an afternoon break.  The big boys have wandered down to the creek, Miss E is swimming in the jacuzzi tub.  Life is good.  And quiet.

Until I look up and SEE A MAN IN MY BACKYARD looking in the windows at my babies.  Being a dainty little thing who rarely ventures out of the house, I fling Baby A into her sister’s arms, snatch up the phone, and race outside.  I don’t know what I got the phone for.  I guess so I can call 911 while beating him with it?  I had a vague plan and adrenaline.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not the cower inside and wait for the cavalry to arrive kinda gal.  Which causes my husband to have gray hair sometimes.  Shhh.  Don’t tell him.

By the time I made across my living room and out the backdoor the kid was long gone, of course.  I found a hole in the fence where boards had been pried away, but I blame my own hoodlum children for that.  Husband dear just got a priority task on the honey-do list.

I didn’t call the sheriff, because I think he’s probably still annoyed with me about the whole apple thing and they are so slow, anyway.  Besides, what am I gonna tell him when he gets here?  That there’s no one in the backyard?

I feel old because my mind registered this guy as a young punk.  Does anyone actually say that?  I need to stop getting my righteous courage from Clint Eastwood movies.

Back inside where I nurse Baby A and tweet my troubles to the world live as they happen.  Mr R comes in and shows me a rash on his legs.  He mentions poison ivy.  Off to Google to find remedies, symptoms, and what not to do.

Miss V, age 6, starts flipping through our Netflix instant queue and has a total meltdown because I won’t let her watch Glory.  Screaming, crying, and yes, kicking.

Husband whirls in, changes clothes, grabs a kid and spins back out.  He’s working seven days a week lately, so neither of us get a break.  He’s getting his orange belt in aikido tonight, and Mr S is testing for his.  Husband dear brings home 14 glazed donuts, leftovers from work.  He tells the children they can have one if they do their chores.

I determine that Mr R has a rash, but it’s likely not poison ivy.  Thank goodness because the last thing this big happy family needs is something that spreads on contact.   I have enough problems as it is keeping the cooties epidemic at bay.

I look up pizza online.  Pizza Hut is running a special, “Any pizza, any crust” which is actually not any pizza, any crust.  I tweet this factoid so the whole world will know of Pizza Hut’s diabolical scheme.

I think about those donuts.  I am tired.  I need  a drink, but since we generally don’t do alcohol in the house, I decide on coffee. With a donut.  Yes, I’ll spoil my dinner and no, I don’t care.

While I’m microwaving the donut (twenty seconds to soft, sweet delightfulness!) I smell smoke.  From the coffee pot.  Sigh.  Of course.

I eat two donuts, and suspiciously eye the backyard.  I’m itching for a fight at this point.  Mr P decides to ask me to look over his reading comprehension at a later date.  Smart boy. Though, it’ after 6 pm and he’s still working on school, lollygagger.  This is why I need my afternoon cuppa.

I log onto Papa John’s and order pizza.  Husband dear is on Atkins, so he can’t eat it but I’ll pick him up some chicken.  I notice that the delivery fee is $1.75, and I’ll save on that plus the tip if I go pick the pizza up.  I select carryout and send my order off to the store.  I guess I will be going out, afterall.

I look up from the computer as I hear Miss C declare she likes short hair.  I confiscate the scissors before she inflicts any damage.  Yay me.

Husband comes home, and notices what I didn’t: natural gas.  Apparently, the broiler is no longer working either.  The kids pile outside to ride bikes, most agreeably, a couple by force, while we air out the house.  I warn husband about the guy in the backyard and hop in the car while he freaks out a little bit.  I love it when he gets all Protector-like.

I back into the trash cans.

I drive to Boston Market, because I have a coupon.  They are out of chicken.  Undeterred, I move on.  Papa John’s never received my order (but I had a confirmation email!)  I am resigned.  I move on.  It’s getting late, and the Kroger deli is closed.  Church’s chicken has  20 minute wait while they fry up some more bird.

I end up buying dinner at Sonic.  That’s as good as it gets tonight, folks.  I got a chocolate Coke as a consolation prize.

I returned home, bearing salty fried food.  The kids were hungry.  Husband dear had salvaged the meatloaf by cooking it into meatloaf crumbles on the stove top.  It’s finally bedtime.  The house doesn’t smell like gas anymore.

I think about my people.  We have people in Kenya now, that we sponsor.  A grandmother and a nine year old girl.  Our people.

I wonder what the grandmother – who is blind, and widowed – is eating.  Is she alone, at the same time I’m whining about too much togetherness?  I wonder about my little Kenyan girl.  She writes to me that she is an average student but expects her grades to go up now that her fees are paid and she has food available.  What did she have for dinner?

I am ashamed for complaining.  I will do better, to honor them.  I will try not to be such a self-entitled baby.

And I’ll never shave my legs unless I want to go somewhere again.