Pouch-ageddon

Ah, the delicate art of scheduling appointments for two kids in different places an hour apart, all before the caffeine in my system has had a chance to kick in. It’s the kind of logistical nightmare that seems possible when you’re staring at your calendar optimistically, thinking, I’ve got this. We’ll just hustle!

Spoiler alert: you do not got this.

The morning kicks off with chaos, because why wouldn’t it? Nobody’s eaten breakfast, everyone’s grumpy, and I'm trying to wrangle two kids like a bouncer at closing time on Wine Wednesday in a college town. My oldest is cranky and he's, "so angry I'm going to turn into the Hulk" because I wouldn't let him take pancakes for the road. My youngest is teetering between adorably clingy and full-scale meltdown mode. And yet, somehow, I load them both into the car with the confidence of someone who clearly hasn’t learned her lesson.

Fast forward to appointment number one: I'm trying to act like a functional human while signing in, my toddler is thrashing in my arms, and my oldest is whining, "I’m huuuuuungry," like a broken record. I glance at the clock, already sweating, knowing exactly how many minutes I have until I need to hit the road if we want to make it to appointment number two on time, which wasn't going to happen so I called in reinforcements, aka, my Mom. Shoutout to our real life super hero and the best Gaga.

And then we're off. Appointment number two—the 15-month check-up. He is officially done. He’s screaming with the force of a child who has had enough of life and this entire day. Mind you, it's 8:15 AM. I try everything: shushing, bribing, begging, calming music, paci —which he chunked somewhere I have yet to find—and my last ditch effort was his juice. That worked for all of 20 seconds until he dropped it. If I could have dislocated my arm to get to his juice, I would have. Nothing was working. So, in a moment of desperation, I grab a pouch. This will calm him down, I think. He’ll get a little snack to hold him over until we get to the doctor's office. We’ll salvage this.

WRONG. So, so wrong.

I hand over the pouch like the benevolent snack deity I am, and for a brief, glorious moment, he sucks on it like he actually knows what he’s doing. I foolishly think, okay, we got this. But then...then he realizes the pouch has untapped potential. One good squeeze, and BOOM—a fruit puree grenade goes off in my backseat. Suddenly, apple carrot yogurt (or whatever ridiculous flavor I grabbed) is covering his face, body, and somehow it's all in his hair. He's screaming and gasping at the same time.

Meanwhile, I'm driving, helplessly watching this slow-motion horror show in my rearview mirror. By the time I pull over to assess the damage, he wiped the mess from his eyes and nose, but it wasn't just him. The car seat is a crime scene. I tried to clean him up with baby wipes, but I know deep down this is a full bath and prayer level situation.

I do the best I can to clean him up. Then I reach for the empty grocery sack on the floorboard to throw everything away. It's then that I spot the forgotten snack mix disaster still lounging on my floorboard from the day before, courtesy of little mister shaking an open bag with the enthusiasm of a bottle service girl in Vegas parading a champagne bottle with sparklers.

By the time we get to the doctor, we're both sticky, smell faintly of rotting fruit, and his hair looks like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy. Then I get that look. You know the one. The, oh, another mom on the brink, look. And honestly? I’ve never been more tempted to climb onto the exam table myself and beg for a five-minute nap.

Of course, I’ll laugh about it later. Eventually. Probably. The worst part? I'll inevitably make the same rookie mistake again because desperate times call for desperate snacks—but also because I'll likely never learn my lesson.