Remind me again: Why do I have four kids?

There’s a reason why I don’t like to play with children. Truth be told, there are a multitude of reasons I don’t like playing with children. My children or anybody else’s children; I don’t discriminate. It’s simply the fact that to play with children, from my perspective, inevitably ends up turning into a chore, and an un-fun one at that. Here’s today’s example.

My three older girls were all gone doing things with different friends after school. So, per my four year old son’s request, I invited a little friend over to play with him for an hour and a half while his sisters are gone. I figured, heck, maybe I can get some reading or writing done for the tiny bit of time they’re playing before I have to put back on my mom cap and take care of everyone else’s needs.

I find that I habitually delude myself into thinking, if my kids have friends here to entertain them, then I can focus on other things easier. Ha. That is such a falsehood.

I picked up said little friend to come over to play with my boy, and we drove the minivan home. They wanted to play a game out in the culdesac that they have apparently played before, involving driving battery-operated cars and riding bikes, ramming into one another in some battle-like fashion. I tried to dissuade them from playing out front, because that means I need to be out front to supervise, since none of the older siblings are present to chaperone. I’m not yet comfortable leaving the four year old alone outside, even with his six year old friend accompanying him. Call me crazy…..

Anywho, of course the battery in the Barbie jeep is dead. No one but me ever thinks to take it out and recharge it when it’s dead; hence, frustration ensues all around. So, with no automated driving machine available, they’re only choice was to resort solely to using the bikes. The little friend had to use an old pink bike which was not to his liking; when he verbalized his complaint about the femininity of his mode of transportation, I politely informed him that was his only choice if he wanted to ride (and thought loudly in my head, quit your whining!) My four year old has a very cool little dirt bike with training wheels that he got for his birthday that we pulled out of the garage with some difficulty; if you could see our garage, you would understand why. It’s a minor disaster zone, as (I have convinced myself) are most people’s garages (right?). The bike, of course, has a flat front tire. Crap.

This means, due the lacking presence of the person who should perform this function (i.e., my husband), I have to use our new fangled air compressor pump thingie that I’ve never touched before. The upside was that I located the monstrosity right away, in and of itself a miracle in our garage. The downside, however, was that the frickin’ thing weighed like ten bajillion pounds. Using all the strength acquired from doing my yogalates workout for the last three days, I managed to lift it up and carry it from the garage to my front porch, where an electrical outlet is located. Scooting the cell phone, home phone, Ipod and earphones, laptop and adapter out of the way (which I had carried all outside, ridiculously thinking I would be able to do something with my electronic devices while the children played), I managed to get the aforementioned monstrosity plugged in. Next was attempting to figure out how the stupid thing works.

Now, I have used a hand pump before, to pump up balls or bike tires. I’ve never had any trouble, to speak of, in the usage of these. They’re pretty straightforward, right? Okay, this big fat thing on the porch had NO directions on it, other than the lovely warning label on the back which read “Read all instructions before operating this machinery,” or something similarly useless. Great. Oh well; I can figure this out, I told myself. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa in college; surely that’s good for something, right? I managed to find out where the cord dealybopper was tucked away, and actually got it hooked up in what seemed to be an appropriate manner. Now what?

My son’s little friend quietly suggested, “How ‘bout you flip that little switch on right there?” Right; the on/off switch. Check. Friggin’ smart aleck six year old. After turning some magical dial up, we finally had a sound that resembled an obnoxiously loud vacuum cleaner, and I assumed that was good. Now, I had to find a way to connect the skinny hose thingiemajig to the bike valve stem-mabobber and put air in the tire. After attempting to mate these two things multiple times, I finally consummated their relationship, and recognized immediately the fruit of my labors: the tire was swelling like a pregnant belly. Yay for me!!!!

After what seemed like a suitable length of time and firmness of tire pressure, I removed the air hose dealthing and quickly tried to screw the cap back on the valve to close it off, but to no avail. For whatever reason, I could not seem to get that damn thing screwed back. I had to repeat the process of intercourse multiple times, as the pregnant tire deflated immediately when I couldn’t get the cap screwed on tight enough. After about five attempts, I finally succeeded in my efforts.

As a reward for all my hard work, my son was no longer interested in riding his big boy bike, and pulled his tricycle out of the garage, deciding he’d rather ride that instead. Right. Okay. Fine. Don’t mind me; I’m only sweating buckets here, since the humidity is like 673% outside. Deep breaths; remain calm. I will not throw a fit in anger, no matter how badly I want to right now.

I unplug the air compressor, wind up the cord, figure out how to detach the hose thingie, roll it back up and stuff it in the little cubby it came from, and strain my groin muscles to lift it back up and carry it to the garage, putting it back where I found it. Setting it down on the cement floor, I realized for the first time that there were wheels on the bottom of it, and an extendable handle on top. Son of a……. Deep breaths, again.

I came back to the front porch, bringing with me a folding camp chair, and carefully opened it and put it in the shade. As I sat down, reaching to pick up my laptop, my son’s little buddy rode the pink Barbie bike up to me (we have lots of girl things around, much to the dismay of my sons little friends). He boldly informed me that the front tire of his bike was flat. I just stared at him, with a look on my face that was something like, “You have got to be kidding me.”

Feeling more than a little bit perturbed, I hoisted my butt up off the camp chair and traipsed back to the garage, sighing. At least I knew what I was doing this time, and I didn’t have to carry it. I pulled out the extendable handle on the air compressor and pulled it part way out of the garage, before realizing that there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks it was going fit between the tiny space left between the garage door and the rear end of my minivan. Clearly, I was going to need to do more yogalates, lugging the big thing up again and giving myself a small hernia in the process.

After finishing the second bike, feeling exultant and pissed off simultaneously, I put things away again. On my way back out to my chair, finally done with ‘helping’ the kids, I was then promptly told from the two miscreants that they were done playing outside, and decided they were going inside. I grinned; why am I not surprised? The kids ran in the front door, while I patiently put my camp chair back away, then gathered up my cell phone, my Ipod and earphones, the house phone, my laptop and adapter, and drug everything back in the house. I plopped down on the floor of the living room, dropped everything gently, and wiped the sweat off my face with my shirtsleeve.

And, I ask myself again, why do I have four children? And why do I invite their friends over to play? And why, for the love of Pete, have I made a promise to never drink an alcoholic beverage again? What is wrong with me?