One of those days in under three hours

Sunday morning, I had just come in from taking the clothes off the backyard line, my head ringing from hitting the glass hummingbird feeder full of sticky homemade feed, (every time). Phone rings.

It's Serene Sunday School Lady. She calmly tells me Jack is needing a little extra help today and could someone come get him, sooner than later.

My response?

"Is that him?!" Some child, apparently mine, is wailing and screeching in the background.

Serene Sunday School Lady: (Long pause) "Yes."

I can tell we've pushed her well past her serene point.

I text my mother, who has taken the twins to the early Sunday School, and jump in the car, hair dripping wet and slightly sticky.

We make attempts, Serene Sunday School Lady and I, to return Jack to his happy, chair-sitting self. To no avail.

Pull his happily seated twin sister out of Sunday School, skip the sermon, have a long, calm talk with Jack about listening and not throwing fits on the way home. He's very happy to be going home. Morgan tells me if I had listened in the first place he could have gone home, fit-free. Oy.

We get home, breeze in because Sunday is my day with the girls at promptly 11:30 a.m. Hubby is waiting at the door, hands on hips, parental glare firmly in place. Asks Jack why the fits again. Little guy! He apologizes, sits on his bed, no fun to be had for hours, or, in adult time, 4 minutes.

I go to the master bedroom, Morgan in tow asking why tattling is bad, and stick my head under the faucet. I'm explaining the intricacies of why snitches get stitches when the hubby comes into the room.

"I can't begin to know what to even ask at this point, but why?"

"Hummingbird food. In my hair."

"You're like some Charlie Chaplin character, I want to tell you to watch out for the rake before you step on it."