The mother of melt-downs--mine.

With a title like that, I feel like I must set the stage a bit, you know show you why I felt the need to melt. My day started at 5:30a.m. with an hour long sweat-fest at the gym. It seemed like the way to go since exercise had be nil over the weekend and eating had been in the abundance category. I arrived home at 7:10, in plenty of time to make breakfast, pack lunches, search for lost socks, argue the merits of brushing vs. mouthwash, explain in detail what was in their lunch for the day, find the lost homework stashed in the bathroom and gel the hair.

It's my turn to drive carpool and it is an auspicious day for it, as the roads in the neighborhood are closed for a slurry seal. What is that you ask? I think it's just more asphalt but really I couldn't care less because it's kept the neighborhood association off my back for a week, and that means they haven't had time to notice the dead plant in my front yard. It's number 97 on my list of things to get done in my lifetime, in case you were wondering. Actually, this slurry seal is more than a little annoying as I have to park a couple streets away. That means dragging the neighborhood children to the bus the old-fashioned way: walking.

I rush because I have to get home to shower the stink off me before I take Kate to the doctor at 9:30a.m. I also need to wipe Max's nose, fix his wayward hair and change him out of his pajamas that have soggy Golden Grahams glued in various locations. I shower, apply a coat of mascara and lip-gloss and manage to stick the milk in the fridge before we leave. We are late.

Max said poo-poo as I was buckling his car-seat so we retraced our steps at lightening speed. A successful plop was made and our lateness was solidified.

We wait, wait, wait while Max checks out the floor with his tongue, names all the colors in the room, turns on and off the light switch until time out, climbs on the chairs, rips the paper on the table, plays cars, kicks the wall, and sings songs. Katie is diagnosed and it's not one of the two horrible diseases that I was sure (from my internet research) she had. I am relieved and so it's back in the car to drive her across town and back to school.

After a quick stop at the pharmacy, it's time to go home and feed Max lunch. I only have a half-hour to get him to eat before his nap. This may seem like plenty of time but really, you probably don't have a toddler who feels that eating at meal time is optional. Why eat what's placed in front of me when I'm perfectly capable of opening the fridge whenever I'm hungry or climbing the shelves in the pantry for the good stuff? He eats satisfactorily and I wrestle him down for his nap because he has (drum roll) his very first speech therapy appointment.

I have been anticipating this for a month. I have! You see, I am frustrated. My sweet, yummy Max is clever and I can tell he has a fabulous personality but I can't understand him. I want to be able to write down all the cute baby things he says and thinks but really most of the time I have no idea. The clock is ticking, he's getting older (almost 3) and I'm missing how he is discovering and understanding the world. This is a gigantic tragedy in my book and I really want to get him some help.

I have prepared for this day. I have negotiated with Robert to be home (not easy) AND to pick up the neighborhood kids from the bus stop. He's more than willing to do these things but it comes at a busy time for him and I realize that I am not going to be able to hold him to his end of our only gone 3-nights-a- week deal (this week) because of this. Sigh. More time to blog and blog and bore everyone with my stories. I have looked up the address, map quested it and am ready to go. I even wake Max up early from his nap so I can arrive on time.

I get lost. Really. It's in a part of town that I rarely venture. I blame Map Quest but I'm not positive it's the map. A recipe for disaster in my family is Robert at the wheel and me in the passenger seat, map in hand, directing. I frustrate Robert with my creative interpertations of maps, signs, roads, etc. He always asks, " But WHY did you think that?" I can't explain it. It always seems like a reasonable option at the time.

Anyway, I made so many u-turns with my car, I was starting to get sick. I called to let them know I was running a little late. I apologized and even laughed with receptionist about Map quest. Two minutes later I pull into the parking lot and my phone is buzzing. It was her. The receptionist but without the friendliness in her voice. She's all business now.

"I'm afraid we are going to have to reschedule your appointment. You are 15 minutes late and we can't accomodate you now."

"Whaaat?" I sputter. "But I'm here. RIGHT NOW."

"I'm sorry, we need the full hour to do an evaluation of Max."

"Okay, so can we do half of the appointment now and then I can come back later. I just drove a long ways to get here. I left in plenty of time, I just got lost."

In her best screw-you voice she answered, "You were late and not we can't do half now and half later. It doesn't work like that. We are on a tight schedule and have an appointment at 3:30p.m."

"Okay, could we see if this next appointment would mind starting a little bit later since I am HERE NOW?" I ask.

The conversation begins to deteriorate from there. She is unwilling to do anything to help me or be sympathetic to my situation. I get really upset and before I start to cry I tell her in my wobbliest voice that we will have to discuss this later. She answers, "Fine," and slams the phone down like I deserve to live life without speech therapy because I was 15 minutes late. I start to cry. I think about the day I've had, the week, the busy, busy, the awful, awful and the unfair. I sob. I get home and scare the crap out of Robert. He can't understand why I am so upset. I can't explain it to him. Except that I really just want to clean my car alone. In peace.

I want to scrub the dirt off the seats and wipe the windows because you see, I feel like I am my mini-van. I am dented, scratched and need a new paint job. On the inside, I'm not much better. I have kid finger prints, clutter and a broken windshield wiper. So he watches the kids and I clean. It's cathartic and practical as I am the one driving tonight for our monthly GNO and I am embarrassed for anyone, even a friend, to see the state of me and my mini-van. Thank goodness I had a night off. I think that if I hadn't, Robert might have had genuine cause for concern. And yes, I do realize there are bigger problems and worse days, but that line of reasoning has yet to work on any of my kids in the middle of a melt-down. The same holds true for me.

Am I a bad person if I wish that receptionist a couple of bad hair days and a huge zit on her nose?