A Long Hot Walk

(Or: "Why I am not yet ready to be a parent")

Today promised to be a crazy day. Mom is taking child # 3 and foster brother # 1 to San Luis Obispo to help FB#1 with college stuff, while child #2 has high school registration. Children #4 & 5 were planning on going with Mom, but decided not to. This left me, child # 1, with the task of caring for them and getting to Hanford for an appointment by 4:30.

Cute, right? Try living with them...

Fortunately, my wonderful amazing mother made plans for them to go to a friend's house at 1:30. I just had to walk them there. Sound easy? NO.

We get out the door after I throw child # 4 a pair of really big sandals to wear, and telling child # 5 that he could stay in his pajamas, his friend wouldn't care. About halfway down the block, I decide to give # 4 a ride on my back to speed up the process. (I have a tendency to forget about my faulty back at inopportune moments.) She hands me her bright pink socks to give to her at the end of the walk. I carry her about a full block, then # 5 gets tired and sulky. I have them switch, then we finally make it to the friend's house.

Another interesting note about me: I hate knocking on doors. I get all self-conscious and embarrassed, and I either knock so quietly that no-one could hear it, or so hard that I hurt my hand and scare the inhabitants. So when we realize that the doorbell doesn't work, a little part of my soul starts sobbing. But after knocking a few times (ending with the second option above, in which I try to not show my siblings that their big sister just injured herself yet again on an inanimate object), someone comes into the door and takes the children. I told her she could keep them, but she declined.

Just as I start walking back and think my troubles are over, I do my usual *what is this in my pockets again* check. Lo and behold, it's the pink socks.

The instruments of evil. And my left hand. Ignore the messed up thumb.

So I get to walk them back to the house, shamefacedly hand them to the first person who comes to the door, then hurry home. Moral of the story: I am nowhere near ready to have children of my own. I can barely handle my siblings.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go catch a bus. (Since I've never been on the city bus before, keep me in your prayers today.)