NNNNNOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!

Mike: "Kids, stop arguing. Your Mother is already stressed enough."

We are in the car, all five of us, on the way to deliver an already late meal to some friends.

Surprisingly, I'm not stressed because we are running late. I'm stressed because the homemade chicken pot pie I worked on for over an hour decided it wanted to live on my kitchen floor instead of its aluminum pan. And it did a graceful swan dive into the side of the cabinetry before hitting the floor and splatting all over a three foot swath of tile.

And I did what any sane person would, after crying "NNNNOOOOOOOOOO" and just staring in disbelief for about a minute: I ignored the problem. Literally. Left the dang thing on cold, hard tile floor. To cool, obviously.*

And boy did that drive the dogs ape-poo batty. Doug was running around the mess like he was at the perimeter of a hazmat spill without appropriate gear for clean-up. He couldn't figure out why I kept shooing him away. "This smells GGGOOODDDDD, Momma. Can I eat it ALL?" was floating above his head in a doggie-conversation bubble.**

This wouldn't be so bad had I not had a conversation with the recipient of the failed culinary masterpiece who told me she LOVES a good pot pie and was excited to get a meal geared for her tastes.

As I stood at the foot of Mt. Potpie, my brain just kept screaming "LOSER. Rookie mistake. Use a baking sheet. Dumbo."

So, back to the car:

The Babe: "Mom, why are you stressed?"
Me: "Because I'm running late to take a meal to someone." Slight lie. I'm trying to play cool about being mad at my idiocy.
TB: "I'm stressed too." Slight pause. "What does 'stressed' mean?"
Me: "It means 'anxious'."
TB: "What does 'anxious' mean?"
Me: "It means 'nervous'." SURELY he's heard me use THAT word before.
TB: "What does 'nervous' mean?"

Now, by this point, I'm exasperated. Being a lover of words, I'm thinking "Where did I go wrong here? Why doesn't this kid know about being stressed, anxious, and nervous? Is not the Queen's English employed in our household, lad?"

Of course, I'm missing the obvious point that it is actually a GOOD thing these words haven't invaded his five-year-old vocabulary, much less his pint-size body.

But, I'm too busy being stressed to think about THAT.....

Me: "It means my tummy hurts and I'm sad." Poorest working definition of nervous EVER.
TB: "OK. Then I'm 'nervous' too."

Had I known this little exercise was one in "I'm going to copy Mommy's emotion and take it upon myself", I would have just said "I'm fine". But, instead, because I'm all word-uppity, my kid will now be telling the world he's nervous. GREAT.

In the end, all ended up just fine: Turns out, Whole Foods will sell you a great-looking mini-pot pie and a rotisserie chicken if you just give them your credit card.

And, late? Not even on the radar screen of our meal recipients. Gotta love them.

As is so famously quoted, "All's well that ends well."

Or, in the case of the Nowells: All's well that ends with your kid learning a new word he can eventually attribute to your lousy parenting when he's paying two big ones an hour for therapy.


*Not. Somehow, I was just hoping this problem would magically disappear. Or time would rewind.

**Just so you know I'm not the meanest dog owner ever, I did let both Tex and Doug have a little taste. I just didn't want them to go crazy and have doggy diarrhea all over their cage.