The One Where I Buy Beer Instead of My Child's Medication

My favorite quote of the week thus far:

"You know it's bad when your wife has to buy herself beer and flowers."

-Steve

Yes, it's that bad, folks. The "minor colds" or possibly "allergies" I thought we were almost done with blossomed into ultra-mega colds (for Jack, Charlotte, and Stephen) and a nasty sinus infection (for Baylor.) Bay woke up Monday morning lethargic, whiny, and hot, and by the time we made it to the doctor's office that afternoon, he had a fever of 101.4. Sinus infections are no big deal for us--before the boys celebrated their first birthday, they had each battled about six ear infections in the span of just a few months--but still, they aren't fun. I now have three sick kids on my hands, and there just aren't enough kleenex on God's green earth to combat the amount of snot they are generating.

You don't have to feel sorry for me. Really. I am the one who chose to have three kids in under 2 years. I'm just reporting the facts. I value journalistic integrity.

Stephen is a wonderful, wonderful husband who truly appreciates what I do every day, and so Monday evening he sent me out to get myself something to eat from Taco John's so that I could have a few moments of solitude. My only real responsibility was to run by Walgreen's to get Baylor's prescription antibiotic so that we could start kicking this sinus infection in the tail.

A few blocks away from home I decided I didn't want tacos, I wanted sandwiches! And I didn't want to settle for a Coke at Jimmy John's. I wanted beer. Real, honest-to-goodness beer. (Note: Any readers connected to Olivet, please just keep in mind that Stephen signed the lifestyle contract, I did not. And after a week like mine, you'd want a beer, too. Or possibly an entire case. And a fine Cuban cigar.) These two spur-of-the-moment changes of plans were obviously too much for my pea-sized brain to handle, because I altogether forgot about Walgreen's. When I came home, triumphantly clutching my #6 Vegetarian Sub and pack of beer, my husband asked if I had gotten Baylor's medicine.

No, I had gotten beer.

Doh.

I'm okay with winning Worst Mother of the Year award. If cleaning up diarrhea, puke, and snot, faultlessly tracking who gets how much of what medicine when, washing pee-stained clothing, planning Lenten-friendly meals for a week, grocery shopping with the unwashed masses at the discount grocery stores, cheerfully cloth diapering my baby, cooking aforementioned Lenten-friendly meals, bathing three children, and, on top of all that, maintaining a blog for which I do not earn one red cent...if doing all of that and messing up once by forgetting to buy my child's medication because I JUST WANTED A STINKING BEER somehow earns me the Worst Mother of the Year award, then so be it.

I do not, I repeat, I do not want to know what I would have to do in order to earn Best Mother. I pity that fool.