Another one to make Blog History...

So we're walking out of the atheletic club this morning. Some genius put the kids' child care in the VERY BACK of the BUILDING. I'm sure that's for safety purposes but you know that person was NOT a mom. It's always the bane of my existance to bring those 3 in and out of ANYWHERE but especially the athletic club. It's one of those 2 story, gargantuan places that has a salon, cafe, indoor/outdoor pool, saunas etc. You get the picture.

I pick up my 3 and I won't even go into how long it takes me to get them out of there. Most often they are on the computers playing Mario Brothers but sometimes I have to crawl up into the maze to get them. I hate that! Fortunately I'm not the only mom I've seen do that. So we finally leave that place (and only because I had already hit my 2 hour limit...I milk that child care for all it's worth!) We're walking down 2 VERY LONG hallways and I notice that Little Dude has his Crocs on the wrong feet. Dumb me, I mention that to him. He plants himself in the middle of this long and very wide (crowded) hallway and takes off his shoes, throwing them down the hallway. He starts SCREAMING, "Me VARE GOCKON's ooooose, Me VARE Gocken's oooooosse." Gocken is his older brother, Boy Wondertwin (BWT). BWT responds by screaming yelling, "No, your shoes don't fit me. I'm not giving you my shoes." Girl Wondertwin has made her way into the cafe where they sell all their trinkets at kids' eye level. She's begging (loudly) for goggles for her swimming class.

I try to hush Little Dude but as any mom knows, it only makes it worse. I'm to that point after more screaming where I just want to wrap my hand around his mouth (trying not to cut off air supply of course) and run him out of there like a running back. He's still wailing and people are starting to shut office doors while others are coming out to see if 911 should be called. I notice the scene that we are making (used to it by now of course) and stick his shoes in my bag. He's then SCREAMING "mong ooose, mong ooose" (my shoes). I realize that this situation will not resolve itself, no matter the amount of hushing on my part. I grab Little Dude, put him under my arm like Beanie Wells tucks in a football and I run like a banschee out of the building.

The twins are rushing behind me, trying to keep up while they pick up the things I drop behind me. Let's just say I hope there were no security cameras in the parking lot once I got to my car. Little Dude got quite the spanking and lost his Crocs for the day. Someone tell me why they call it the terrible twos? As I found out with the twins, it's certainly the hellish threes...by comparison, twos are a piece of cake!

What the heck will I write about when Little Dude turns four? Too bad I wasn't blogging when the twins were 3. I might have won a pullitzer for that year!