Oh thank Heaven... (written 7.12.18)

Yesterday was July 11th. 7-Eleven gives out free Slurpees. I have 5 kids. Normally I avoid all free give aways because having to be around throngs of greedy people will stress me out to the point where any thrill in the “free” is lost immediately. Yesterday though, I decided to go for it, I actually didn’t even think the Slupees were free, just super cheap, so that would have been a nice surprise had the 10 minute trip not turned into what is now worthy of the written word. So, my family is going through some stuff, or more accurately, I am going through some stuff and as materfamilias, they all have to go through it too. I have moments where I can roll along totally in control and fine, or at least pretending that’s true and others where I am 100% convinced I would do the world a service by living alone in a Winnebago at Lake Havasu and wearing Tevas exclusively. Basically, being a female hermit who, when encountered by tourists and visiting families, makes them wonder “geezus, what broke her.” So many things, and nothing at all. But back to Slurpees. I loaded my five kids up in our minivan, the six, five, and four year olds in the back row. The 2 year old and 7 month old in the middle row, and me in the driver seat, purely physically, never metaphorically. Getting five children out of the house, with clothes on, shoes on, pee out, and without maiming each other or themselves might be possible, but it’s not a common occurrence, and when it happens, it happens with yelling and threats on my part. I don’t hesitate to admit that. My children know they are desperately loved, they also know what mom’s voice sounds like when it breaks because it can’t handle the strain of yelling, “Put. Your. Friggin. Seatbelt. On. Now!” for the 24,000th time. The entire six minute drive to 7-Eleven is filled with questions about where we are going, what we are doing, what they are getting, what they are wanting. My children ask questions, they ask questions that have already been answered, that can never be answered, that should never be answered. They ask questions that their sibling just asked, and then they ask it again. They ask questions that are statements, and they get my attention by saying Mama incessantly and then when they have my attention, they say Mama over and over again, unable to process that they actually have my attention, or most likely, forgetting what it was they needed me for to begin with, so then....they ask a question. One I’ve already answered. It’s a real hoot. We arrive at 7-Eleven. Just take a moment and imagine the nicest convenience store you’ve ever been in. There wasn’t a flood of images was there? Now, imagine the worst and make it a 7-Eleven, next to a shuttered laundromat, with a graffitied Redbox in front. Now put 7 questionable characters, 2 bicycles, one drifter, and a broken down Corolla in your eye-line and walking path. And now, the piece de resistance...imagine walking 5 tiny humans in for free liquified sugar. Hoots abound. It was my brilliant idea to tell the kids we were picking up Slurpees for our friends as a surprise too. The easiest way for me to get out of a funk is to make someone else smile, I really wish it weren’t true, but it is. So I decided we would take a fellow stay at home mama Slurpees for her and her brood. Which I only realized too late meant purchasing nine Slurpees. Nine. With five kids in tow. Five. That’s not math that I like. Not happy math. By some miracle (I thought) no one was waiting for the cheap Slurpees (that were actually free) and we walked right up to the machines. Cherry, Banana, Coca-Cola, Captain CrunchBerry, Lemonade, and Blue Raspberry swirl and churn in the machine beckoning my children and forcing them into a Sophie’s Choice level of decision making that they are not equipped to handle. Nor am I. Suddenly, there are 4 people behind us, then six. I start filling Slurpee cups with one hand pulling the lever and the other holding my 7 month old and keeping his hand from the magic colorful elixir begging him to dip his hand in and PULL! I have three or four cups filled, my two year old yelling for instant gratification, my oldest son asking for a Hot Wheels (why does 7-Eleven even sell toys?!), and my oldest daughter telling me that I’m not getting the flavor she wanted while I fill the cup she grabbed, because God knows that a child can’t possible use a different cup than the one that the Holy Spirit called them to select originally. A splash of warm water hits my naked heels and calves. What the fuck? I turn. My middle son, my beautiful quiet little blonde, has vomited stomach water all over the floor and my feet. The now ten people behind us react in shock and abject horror. The SHADOW OF JUDGEMENT falls upon me but the WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY BABY concern supersedes it. I bury his head into my hip to comfort him as best I can, and he vomits again, this time inches from a trash can. Okay dude, could have aimed a bit there buddy. Not cool. The store employee comes over with a mop, as I had instantly alerted him and was on my fourteenth apology. The people behind still want their Slurpees even with my kid’s bile on the floor in front of them. Ain’t America grand? But hell, my other kids are asking me what’s taking so long and completely unmoved by their brother’s essence emission. Vomit sounds better when referred to as “essence emittance”. Yes? Yes. I soldier on, Slurpees have been poured, they have a shelf life of forty-two seconds, so we are on the move. But it hits me, as the chaos always does. Why? Why the fuck when I am just trying to get my kids a little treat, a nice little emotional eating trip to compensate for my failures as their mother, why did there have to be vomit? If I was weak, if I was a believer, I would assume God was smiting me and fall to my knees screaming “Why me? Whyyyyyyyy Meeeeeeee?”. But a general belief in myself, a fear of breaking societal norms, and the genuine assumption that if God exists I’m well fucked beyond puke in a 7-Eleven, I refrain. Besides, if fictional Jesus really wanted to destroy me, it would have been me puking in the store, and really, it would have been me shitting my pants. So good looking out, deity I give no stock to, you aren’t stopping my kids from getting their soul healing sugar high. I hold my mother-of-five-who-doesn’t-have-her-shit-at-all-together-but-dammit-there-will-be-Slurpees head high and we leave. The highlight? The nine Slurpees were actually free, not just cheap as I mentioned, and our friends were thrilled, so it’s a win for me. “Win” is a relative term in my life.