Four Wailings and a Funeral

Imagine being at a funeral out of town when the gaunt, creepy funeral director comes up to you and says:

"There's a phonecall for you."

That can't possibly be a good thing. Turns out it was my mother-in-law, at the hotel with my kids, calling S-O-S. My son had decided that she wasn't entertaining enough, and began screaming for his mother, and soon his sister had realized it was a good idea as well.

So I fly from the funeral home to the hotel in FREEZING RAIN and in the dark to rescue her and my kids. I get everyone settled down and tuck my daughter in bed with my mother-in-law, and the boys with me.

And then it was quiet.

Too quiet.

My sixth sense was prickling.

Sure enough, my son was trying to escape undetected. He had seen the vending machine in the lobby, and assumed you could help yourself - as long as mommy didn't know about it. I get the escapee back into bed with whispers about psycho clowns that roam hotel halls looking to eat stray children at night or something like that.

And then it was quiet.

You guessed it...

Too quiet.

Suddenly, shrieks pierced the night when my daughter fell out of my mil's very high bed. I scooped up the shaking, frightened child and soothed her to sleep in my arms, silently cursing I would never let a toddler roll out of MY bed! You have to be some kind of idiot to #*(%&*^ be that &*^%%^$ stupid! Finally my daughter fell asleep in my bed and all was quiet.

Until my daughter fell out of my bed. Yelling, screaming, betrayed "how could you let this happen to me again!?" looks. This time she has a bump on her head. So, I put on a robe to make a dash into the hallway to get some ice. That is until my son attacks me, grabbing my ankles and shrieking "NO MOMMY! DON'T GO OUT THERE! THE CLOWN IS OUT THERE! DON'T OPEN THE DOOR!"

My mother-in-law is asking "what clown?", my daughter is yelling like a banshee, my son is being dragged around the room attached to my ankles, and I suddenly understand why padded cells and straight-jackets were invented.

After peeling off my son, icing the daughter, bs-ing the mil and getting everyone to sleep, it's all quiet once again. As I lay there waiting for the next disaster, I hear my son breathing in the playpen. Not clown-phobic son, but the other one, the one who slept soundly through this evening's ordeals.

And I am renewed.