Don't pat yourself on the back too hard

You know, there are days where I make the mistake of feeling like I have it all together. 

Like last Wednesday, when I was sitting in the pediatrician's office with a certain one of my children who had been throwing up all day long and was getting dangerously dehydrated.  (Any of you who have read my blog for any length of time get one and only one guess as to which of my children it was...!)  Despite the fact that he had been throwing up all day, and that my baby had as nasty cold and pooped all over me at the pediatrician's office, and my 9 year old was home with a fever, when my husband called to ask what I wanted him to bring home for dinner, I congratulated myself when I told him that I had managed to get a loaf of bread made and rising to make a sub sandwich for dinner.  He was suitably impressed. 

Until, that is, I had to call him about 30 minutes later and ask him to bring home dinner after all because after I gave the puking toddler a dose of Zofran the wonder drug, and put my gorgeous loaf of homemade bread in the oven to encourage it to rise for a few more minutes, I accidently turned the oven to broil instead of warm, lighting a kitchen towel on fire and nearly burning my house down in the process.  Needless to say, my loaf of bread was a total loss, my husband couldn't stop laughing, and we had KFC for dinner.

Or take last Friday.  Just as I was feeling proud of myself for running a bunch of stupid errands without the baby screaming, the toddler throwing a tantrum, or me losing my cool, I started unloading grocery bags to find that the one I had just purchased from the grocery store wasn't there.  Unfortunately, without it, I was missing one very important ingredient for dinner.  So I loaded the baby (who was now screaming), the toddler (who had a major meltdown at the prospect of getting back in the van,) and myself (very much about to lose my cool), back in to the van, and schlepped back into the grocery store.  I told my sad story to the nice people at the customer service desk, who handed me my bag while having a good laugh at my expense, and headed home, wondering why I thought it was a good idea to leave the house at all. 

And then there was yesterday morning.  My mom and dad were coming for dinner, so I had been cooking up a storm all morning long.  I had Cafe Rio pork simmering and a gorgeous masterpiece of a cake in the refrigerator.  My daughter and I had rehearsed the special musical number that we were playing that afternoon in church, and all four of the kids were bathed, dressed and fed.  My husband came home from whatever it is he does on Sunday mornings and proclaimed himself impressed.  I was feeling really good about myself until we were two minutes from church and Ashlynn said "Mom!  I have to give the talk today!  You told me to remind you, remember.  I'm reminding you!"  Yeah, thanks kid.

And then of course, we left the diaper bag at church.  With my phone in it.  Which incited a major tear-the-house-apart-looking-for-the-phone panic this morning, and gave my bishop a good laugh when I asked to borrow his keys to the church this afternoon so I could go retrieve the diaper bag and my lifeline to the outside world.  (It might be a little ridiculous how addicted I am to my iPhone.  I might need a support group.) 

So the moral of all these sad stories?  I'm never quite as together as I think I am.  And the minute I declare myself to be amazing, I should expect the sky to start falling.  And to reassure you that if you didn't try to burn your house down with a dishtowel this week, you're doing better than me.