Showering is optional

Hey. This is Ryan.

Day Three of Mr. Mommin' it and I'm bushed! I had a raucous discussion with some of the sisters-in-law about when moms or anyone for that matter has time to blog. Well, it's 11:06 p.m., the kids have been in bed for an hour, I just switched the laundry so I'll have less to do tomorrow morning and I need to let out some emotional steam. This is when there's time to blog.

As far as the "you want crow with that?" portion of this week's eye-opening, today was pretty stock full of crow. As in, I'm eating a lot of it.

Man myth No. 257: Women should have enough time in the morning to shower, do their makeup, etc. and get out the door in plenty of time to make it wherever they need to be. I am ashamed to admit I have been critical of Lisha and her hygiene. Or more specifically, the conversation would go something like this:

Me: "Uh, you're showering right now?"

Lish: "Yes. Is there a problem with that?"

Me: "It's 3:30 in the afternoon."

Lish: "So?"

Me: "Why can't you shower in the morning, like a normal person? You have plenty of time."

Aaaaand ... scene!

Now, here's my awakening and crow-eating: Yesterday went fairly smoothly because I learned from the day before. I've been using old missionary planners to make sure my brood is on time for whatever millionth activity they had that day was attended and on time, thus resulting in my present-day overconfidence (or cockiness, if you will). I added a personal errand to the morning. Mistake No. 1. I loaded the kids up in the van and went over to a friend's house to deliver their family pictures I shot on Saturday.

I also had worked on them in Photoshop this morning (Mistake No. 2) while the children ate breakfast. Did I mention they were in the van in their PJs? Mistake No. 3, come on down! The meeting lasted a little longer and threw off my planner. When we got home, I told our oldest, Ally, to please get the dance clothes ready for later on, get dressed and could she get Emma (six years old) some clothes for today, too? We're up to Mistake No. 4, if you're still counting. I overloaded her tiny eight-year-old brain. She couldn't process all my instructions, so she responded with, "Dad, Clark (the nine-month-old baby) is poopy."

I knew that. I could smell him from down the hall. But, Luke (the four-year-old) had a game in 30 minutes, and it was more important to make sure he was getting dressed. (Mistake No. 5.) Besides, I was already rooting through his drawers for his game shirt and sweats, a fresh pair of underwear and socks and shoes.

As Luke dressed, I grabbed Clark and changed him. Poop all the way up his back. Again. How can something so little poop so much? And electric yellow? Really? He's also taken to kicking like a braying mule whilst getting his bum changed, consequently smearing the neon stuff into the carpet. Not duct-taping Clark to a changing station with some sort of poop guard: Mistake No. 6.

Ally's now screaming at Emma that, "DAD SAID YOU HAVE TO GET DRESSED! RIGHT (pause) NOW!"

Emma responds with, "AAAALLLLYYYY! YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!" and sprints out their bedroom door, naked and screaming, "STAY AWAY FROM ME!"

Luke is joining in now by whining that he wanted to wear shorts. I tell him that it's about to rain and his game will likely be cancelled again anyway, so get your sweats on ... NOW! Mistake No. 7. He flails on the floor, bawling and throws his sweats, shoes and socks across the room, refusing to finish getting dressed. "When am I ever going to play in a game?!" he cries, over and over.

Clark is changed, poop scrubbed out of the carpet and now Naked Emma is in front of me, starting to (finally) get dressed. I had to console her and gently remind Ally that, "You're not the Mom." Emma sticks her tongue out at Ally and Ally retaliates by rolling her eyes and stomping in the direction of her room, wailing, "I was only doing what Daddy asked me to! Jeez! Everyone always thinks I'm lying!"

Later, I secretly thanked her for semi-doing what I asked. In her defense, she had gotten Emma clothes and laid out their dance clothes for later. Well, this happened about 10 minutes after she played with Clark and teased Luke with, "You're not gonna pla-ay, you're not gonna pla-ay." But she did do what I asked her. Sort of.

This was it! The children were dressed, their hair was done but I still had to get ready. And here's where I learned to understand why my wife could be stinky when I came home at lunch and what an ignorant jerk I was/am/will continue to be. I took a shower. We're up to eight crucial, time-sucking mistakes.

The kids were, allegedly, ready to go and riding their bikes. Clark was in his playpen/crib playing with his toys. I had about 15 minutes before Luke's game started to take a quick shower, get dressed and leave. Wrong. By the time I got out of the shower, dressed and shaved, we had five minutes to get to the ballpark. And - this should be tattooed on every poser-father's forehead - whatever can go wrong in those five minutes, will go wrong. Just as we were about to step out the door, Luke ran in with wet pants. "I had an accident," he whined. We were SO close!

I hurriedly changed his pants and underwear and we sprinted for the van. Emma was halfway down the block on her bike, so I made her stash it in a friend's yard (they were in Boise and wouldn't be home until later tonight anyway) and off we went.

We were about 10 minutes late to the game. And here's the kicker ... I went to the back of the van to grab Lukey's mitt. It wasn't there! "I think I know where it is," he said. "It's at home under the tree." He had been playing baseball with the neighbors the night before and left it in the yard.

There he sat on the bench, full-out sobbing because he was late (his team was in the outfield) and he didn't have a mitt. Luckily, another mom took pity on his plight (I told him he couldn't play without a mitt) and loaned him the extra one in their car.

So there you have it. Another day of trying to move four kids out the door and what have I really learned? I've learned not to get cocky. I've learned my wife is AMAZING. I've learned every mother who strives to provide their kid a decent summer, school year or whatever is FREAKIN' AMAZING. Keep it up, girls. You've won over this former criticizer. Now we only have to convince, like, 3.286 billion more. (That's the estimated male population on this planet, by the way.)

Epilogue: Luke was the last batter, which in t-ball means he hits the ball and everyone on bases runs home, regardless if they get tagged out or not. Translation: He hit two grand slams. He was so proud as he rounded all three bases and tagged home without stopping. And frankly, so was I.

Epilogue II: When we got home, he brought me his mitt. As he walked through the door, he put his hand in it and quickly recoiled. "There's something in it!" he cried.

We pounded on the mitt (Mistake No. 9) and a ton of earwigs and beetles came flying out all over the carpet, which Clark, who was in the vicinity, grabbed and ate before all four of us (by screaming at the top of our lungs) could stop him. He spit it out and started crying because we scared him so badly. He didn't stop until we left to take the girls to dance camp. That brings us to a full 10 mistakes. Another lesson learned: Don't leave baseball mitts outside in Idaho unless you want to recreate a scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Tomorrow has to be a better day. I have way too much housework and yard work to do for this weekend's impending baptism of Ally and arrival of my dad and stepmom. I'll get used to this and figure out how to get everything done without losing my mind, right? And I'll have time to shower in the morning, too, right? Right?! Oh, man. I am doomed to a very stinky summer. And I haven't even got to my misconception of how moms should have enough time and energy in the day to make sure menial housework is done before their husbands come home.