Wednesday

Two days ago, I needed to tutor a high school student in mathematics.  It is a part-time gig that pays relatively well but is difficult for me to do consistently because the students get out of school only a couple hours later than my triplets.  Childcare for them is hard to find, harder to afford.  My sister and I would switch off days, purposely scheduling our students so that one of us would be home to watch the triplets.  But my sister gave birth to her first child 3 weeks ago and what with round the clock breastfeeding and lack of sleep, she can no longer watch after my kids.  She didn’t want to lose the money that tutoring brings in to our often cash strapped home by having the students re-assigned to other tutors in the company for which we work. So she asked me to figure out how to take over. 

There was no getting around having the kids with me so I had one young lady meet me at a McDonald’s near the library figuring my kids could run crazy at the playland while I tutored.  Well, it turned out that this particular McD’s had no playland.  Instead my three ran wild through the restaurant, making friends with strangers.  My tutee showed up an hour late just as I noticed a for sale sign on a mini-van outside in the parking lot.  I called the number soaped on the windows and walked around to see whose phone rang.  An older gentleman stood up, made a few gestures at me and I at once understood that it was his van but he spoke no English.  His daughter was there and out to the parking lot the three of went where she translated our haggling over the price of the van. 

I agreed to come up with the money in cash and come to their house the next day to test drive and take a closer look.  He was a hard working immigrant going through hard financial times and had this extra van and needed the money so was looking to sell it.  A blue Honda Odyssey.  Perfect for me and my brood.  He worked as a delivery man so the van was chock full of newspapers and those annoying flyers that land in folks’ driveways every so often.  I had been driving a Chrysler Town and Country but because of bad luck and some bad decisions on my part and an inability to keep up with the payments had to let the car go.  For two and a half months I had been toting my three around in my sister’s terribly old Toyota Camry. The passenger side door has no handle and the window doesn’t go up all the way.  The brand new toddler car seats that had been given to me by a program for the poor at Grady Hospital could not fit across the back of the Camry so I had to dig in the garage and bring out the old outdated ones for them to use.  Two of them are too small and sometimes I could only buckle the top straps.  With my sister having a new baby, this sharing system was not going to work. My brother in law drives an old 1994 sports like car – one of those that make dudes get hard ons.  Only it is full of rust, lacking in heat, and with the driver door and windows unable to open, it is accessible only by climbing through the passenger side.  I am quite the sight dragging my big behind over the emergency brake handle and getting into the driver’s seat.  A two door at that, it is useless for carting kids around.  I needed that damn Odyssey and it seemed fate had brought it to me.

I took down their address and scheduled a time to go their home the next day to take a closer look and bring cash in hand ready to make the transaction.  Problem #1: Hard working immigrant dad leaves home at 6am on Wednesdays and Thursdays and does not return until 1am late at night.  I’d be dealing with the only somewhat English proficient daughter.  I could find no one to watch the triplets for the hour or so it would take to get to Norcross and drive the van back so I decided to at least get the transaction started by taking the triplets with me.

Problem #2: As I left my house to go get them from preschool, my phone died.  Well, it didn’t so much die as decide that it would only work if plugged into the wall.  As I could not hitch the damn house to the back of the Camry, I made my first stop after picking up the kids to the MetroPCS store to get another one.  The store owner spoke of flip phones with QUERTY key boards , of touch screens, of 4g, megabytes, and the ability to attach outside sources to the phone so that it could get more memory, of MP3 players and other stuff that was positively Greek to me.  I showed him my phone and explained that it was fine when plugged in so what could be the problem?  He opened it up and said look – water damage.  Plus the slot where the charger goes in is rusted.  How could this happen, I asked.  I had only purchased this phone the previous October.  He looked at my kids (actually he only looked at one as the others  were busy running back and forth and climbing the display case and trying to make their way back behind the counter) and said, “Well, probably….” And he pointed to the kid.  Good point.  How can I make a phone last, I asked.  Keep it away from your kids.  Fine, smartass. 

Now for all the gobbled gook of which you were speaking, all I need is a phone where I can dial numbers and speak to someone on the other side, plus send the occasional text messages.  He walked to the end of the display case and brought out the cheapest phone. $29.  “It comes to $45 and change with tax.” I am a math tutor, remember (albeit not a very good one) but still 7% tax on $29 does not come anywhere near $45.  Oh, he says, there is a $10 upgrade fee when you get a new phone.  “Um, this phone that is dead cost me $65.  The phone I am getting now cost $29.  That sounds like a DOWNgrade to me.  Shouldn’t YOU be giving ME $10? He didn’t even crack a smile but at least the other customers thought it was funny.  There is a $10 charge every time you change phones.  Okay, so let me get this straight....I am obligated to pay you an additional $10 for a phone because I purchased another phone from you in the past.  Is that right? Yes.  Who the fuck is your business plan creator and where do I buy stock in this company? Lots of laughs from other customers in the store, still not even a hint of a smile from the store owner. So he downloads my contacts into my $45 $29 phone and I ask, “Is it charged?” Halfway he says.  Fucking mistake #3.

After getting the kids chicken fingers and fries and a gyro for myself at the next door American Deli, I drive home to pick up the money for the minivan.  I have decided that I need to go NOW because if this hardworking man gets wind of the fact that I haggled him down to almost half of what the vehicle is worth, I am fucked.  I leave the car running in the driveway with the kids inside and run in to get the address and the money.  I come back 45 seconds later and find my knuckleheads had unlatched themselves from the old car seats.  BLUE is at the wheel turning it madly.  The other two found a container of sunscreen in the glove compartment and had smeared some on their bellies and covered three of the car windows with it.  “What the HELL are you people thinking?  I can’t leave you for a second!”  I take the car keys out of the ignition, go back into the house and get a sponge to clean the windows.  They are thinking they are going to get spanked and as I clean the windows they have already re-buckled themselves and tell me “I behave, Mommy.  No pow-pow.”  I didn’t give pow-pows or spankings, just dirty looks.

My dead phone with the GPS is useless so I tell my sister that I am heading down South Hairston Avenue and to Mapquest me from there since I know from her having a past gig watching an old woman in Norcross that 11 or 12 miles down this road will get me to that town.  I am several miles in when she calls and says that Mapquest says I should take Highway 285.  Too late, I am too far from there so she tells me the alternate long route.  Now, daughter of Spanish immigrant has given me the address as Novile Forest Road.  Sis says that once Hairston turns to Jimmy Carter Blvd I am to take a left onto Peachtree Corner Circle and then an immediate right onto Novile Forest Road.  She also asks me if I am sure that Novile is the right street.  I say yes but fail to ask why she asks.  Mistake #4.  I turn left on Peachtree Corner Circle and cannot for the life of me find this Novile place. I drive and drive and start coming across the same goddamned streets and because I have apparently drank most of my brain cells away during my twenties it does not occur to me that Peachtree Corner Circle is, in fact, a fucking circle.

I HATE getting lost.  I hate it, hate it, hate it.  When I was 16 I left my part-time job one evening heading for home. As it was a trip I had taken many, many times and I drove basically on auto-pilot, my mind elsewhere.  That night, instead of turning right onto a street that would take me through the back roads leading to my house, I turned right literally a few dozen feet too soon and end up on the highway.  I lived in the suburbs of New York.  I found myself lost in New Jersey in the dark of night for two hours crying hysterically and screaming obscenities.

Over the years since of getting lost (many, many, many times) I had dropped the crying hysterically part of the routine and improved upon the screaming obscenities part.  So this day, looking for a street that didn’t seem to exist to purchase a mini-van I desperately needed, I had a trio of toddlers in the backseat yelling “shitmudderfucker! Shitmudderfucker! Shitmuddefucker!”  And one who asked very innocently, “Mommy why you gonna shit a bwick?” 

I call Michaela, daughter of the hardworking immigrant.  She confirms that she lives on Novile Forest Drive.  The trip that should take about 20 minutes is now creeping toward two hours.  I see a sign for a library and turn there.  I end up at a post office.  I roll the window down and say to a nice looking elderly woman “For the love of all that is holy, can you PLEASE tell me how to get to the library?” She smiles sympathetically and tells me it is the next building over. Once I get to the library, I ask the librarians to use the internet.  I Mapquest and find that the address I am looking for is 1.75 miles from the library. I do not pay attention to the fact that when I typed in Novile, Mapquest decides that I actually mean NOBLE. Mistake #5.  Apparently Mapquest is smarter than me when it comes to deciphering Spanish speakers, who I have forgotten, cannot pronounce the letter “B”.  It tells me to go NW on Spaulding and then blah, blah, blah.  I tell the damn computer that if I could tell my NW from my SE from my ass I wouldn’t FUCKING need Mapquest.  It does not answer me.  Meanwhile, my triplets are taking chairs from the children’s section and making a semi-circle around me at the computer.  SKINNY announces that she needs to poop. You’re gonna have to wait kiddo.  I drag the kiddie chairs back to the kiddie reading room and then head to the librarian desk. 

Me: Once I leave this library and go back to Spaulding, do I make a right or a left to get to Peachtree Corner Circle?

Librarian#1: Well, let’s see. (She rubs her chin.) You are going to make…a right.  Then on your left will be Peachtree Corner Circle.

Librarian #2: Well, really you can make a left also and go down past the Presbyterian Church and at Peachtree Corner Circle you can take a right. (pause) Wait, what street are you looking for?

Me: Novile Forest Drive. I’ve been told it is off PCC but I have been driving around and can’t find it.

Librarian #2: PCC is actually a circle so you CAN get to it from either direction.  You should try Mapquest.

Me: (thanks genius, what do you think I was using the computer for?) Yeah, it says it is only a couple miles from here right off Holcomb Bridge Road.

Librarian # 2: Oh well then I would say go left past the Presbyterian Church.

Librarian #1: Are you sure that it is Presbyterian?  I think it may be Baptist.

Me: (hey fuckers, my kid is about to shit herself). Which direction will take me near Holcomb the quickest?

Librarian #3: (who has appeared out of nowhere): The bathroom is right through the automatic door on your left. Maybe you can take the kids there and we can check Mapquest.

Me: Look, thanks for your help.  I will turn right out of the parking lot and if I don’t see Holcomb or Peachtree Corner I’ll just turn around and head in the other direction.

Librarians #1, #2, #3 in unison: Yeah…okay…that should work.

I walk out past the automatic doors and sure enough the ladies room is right there on the left.  I start to push open the doors when it occurs to me that I HAVE NO DAMN CHILDREN WITH ME! I step back into the library and holler BLUE! SWOOSH! SKINNY! Let’s GO!  Patrons look at me.  What fucking ever.  My kids come running from all different directions.  SKINNY gets on one toilet, the other two take the other stalls.  SKINNY announces that she has made a big poo and wants me to see. “Good job, honey.  Do you want me to wipe you?” No!  I do it myself. Out of the stalls they come one by one and announce that they must now wash their hands.  “We don’t have time for hand washing!  Believe me, your hands are grosser than anything you may have touched!” Then I sigh and pick them up one by one to wash their hands at the sink.

As I leave the library I call Michaela once more and she finally, FINALLY answers her damn phone.  “I’ve been driving around forever.  I can’t find you. Do you live in one of these apartment complexes off PCC?” “No,” she says,” I live in a house on Novile Forest Drive.”  “Is it off PCC?” “I don’t think so, it is off Peachtree Corner.” “So Peachtree Corner Circle is different than Peachtree Corner?” “I don’t know about Peachtree Circle, I know it is Peachtree Corner.” Great.  

“Michaela,” I say, “give me your address again.” “Novile…” I interrupt, “NO!  Spell it for me” “N-O-B-L-E.” Fucking.A. “Look, my kids are hungry and I am tired.  Can you please meet me at one of the big shopping plazas with a McD’s or a Burger King? I think I spotted one of those.  I can then follow you back to your place.” “I can’t”, she says, “I don’t have a license and no one in the house drives except my dad and he is out working.”  “Ok, I just came from the library and Mapquest says I am only a couple miles from you so give me 10 or 15 minutes.”

I take a left out of the library parking lot and after a couple miles it is clear I am heading in the wrong direction.  I pull an illegal u-turn and then it hits me.  My original phone took so long downloading the GPS system some months back that I fell asleep waiting for it to complete.  Which is why I didn’t even try with this new phone.  I figure what the hell, I give it a try.  In 5 minutes the damn thing is working.  As I follow the directions I hear BLUE giggle from the back seat “Look at my penis, Mommy.”  I turn and find that the little bugger has reached through is seat belt, past his shorts, into his underwear and is pulling is penis as if to see just how far he can make his foreskin stretch. “Put that thing back in your pants!” Not a minute later, it is SWOOSH who I hear “Look at this, Mommy.” Turning again I find he has pulled his pants down to just around his little balls and by thrusting his hip up and down he is making his wee-willy bounce up and down off his belly button.  The other two are laughing riotously. “You CAN NOT DO THAT!” Only I am stifling a laugh as well because, admit it, that’s some funny shit.  I look around the traffic and hope to heaven no truck passes by and dials 911.

My GPS finally tells me to turn onto Peachtree Corner Circle and then to make an immediate right onto Noble Forest.  But the problem is that immediate right is an apartment complex called Highland something or other and there is no sign saying Noble Forest Drive.  I pass it by, my GPS says “recalculating route” then promptly dies.  I u-turn and go into that apartment complex.  Surely someone there knows where Noble Forest Drive is.    The complex is made of four or five apartment homes to every standing building and the place is huge. I drive in a bit and find a girl and boy about 14 or 15 sitting on a stoop. I roll down the window and ask what the address is.  The girl shrugs.  “Do you live here? “ I ask.  “Yes,” she says.  “And you don’t know the address?” “I just moved here.”  Are you fucking kidding me? I give her a death stare then park the car (taking the damn keys with me this time) and find a teenage boy messing with his skateboard.  “What is the address here?” “Um, um…oh, yeah, Noble Forest Drive.” He is standing in front of a building with the number 800 on it.  I ask which direction might be the 1800s and he points to one direction and then says “Or it might be the other way.”  It is now 3 fucking hours since I left home.

I drive to a building where the numbers are marked 1803-1807 or something.  Then I spot a mini-van with a “For Sale” sign on it.  I figure hard working immigrant is selling more than one van. He did say he had four cars and desperately needed the money so he wanted to get rid of one.  The phone number on the van is the same as the one I saw yesterday but not the same van.  I park next to it.  My driver side window is down and the kids decided to exit the car Dukes of Hazard style through the open window with no shoes on.  They follow me around bare-footed country bumpkin style until I find the exact number I am looking for.  I knock on the door furiously and hear dogs barking.  I knock again and then ask SWOOSH to ring the bell because SKINNY’s hair is a hot mess so I redo her barrettes while waiting.

A middle aged very friendly woman opens the door and says “Ah, un momento por favor,” then yells back into the house “Michaela!” Michaela appears and some of my rage dissipates (a tad, a very small tad) because she is really a friendly, shy looking young girl like I remember the day before.  She says she is going back in to get the car keys.  Meanwhile her mom is cooing like crazy over my kids. “Aye, precioso. Muy bonito.” “Tresjihos,” I say.  And she says “Hablo espanol?” I say “Muy, muy poquito” Which she takes as an invitation to babble at warp speed in Spanish.  I catch that she asks if I have any more and I shake my head vigorously.  She then explains in Spanish that she just wondered if I had had other kids first and then popped out triplets and I say “No, solamente esta tresjios” and I realize that perhaps I know more than just un poquito espanol, or at the very least can fake it a bit. 

Michaela comes out with the keys and Mama tells her that my kids are triplets and the back and forth Spanish between them is more about their cuteness than the fact that they are triplets.  I find out later through Michaela that multiples run in her family.  An aunt and a great aunt had quintuplets, a grandmother had triplets and two sets of twins and I am left wondering what the fuck is in the water in Uruguay. But before we leave the premises I tell the young miss that in fact the DOES live in an apartment complex and there is NO sign saying NOBLE Forest Drive.  I leave out the part that since she has been in this country for eight years she should be able to distinguish her “V”s from her “B”s. Would have saved me a shitload of trouble.  My cell is dead so before we head out for the test drive and I make her take my phone into her house to charge.  Then she takes me to the van.  I tell her this is not the van I saw yesterday. I saw a blue Honda Odyssey and this is a green Pontiac Montana.  (WTF is a Montana, anyway?) She insists that this is indeed the car I saw and when she opens it up it does look suspiciously familiar. What the hell was I on that made me think I was looking at an Odyssey? Then I keep calling the damn thing a Hannah Montana. I make a quick call on her cell to have my b-i-l  blue book the car. Then we throw the kids in sans car seats and go for a test drive.  It drives like work van.  I feel I should be tossing newspapers out the window.  The ignition is impossible to start easily…she actually has to call her dad when we get stuck a couple miles down the road when I stop to check out the trunk.  It is in not terrible shape but crappy enough and certainly not what I am looking for.  I tell her my b-i-l checked and the van is worth $500 less than I had ready to hand over.

She calls her father and my muy poquito espanol understands that she is telling her dad that I did research and he has overpriced the van.  Not to mention shit falling apart and my left but cheek being sore because the springs in the driver seat are so close to the surface.  I drop her off back home and she says she will talk to her father.  My new phone is charged enough to get home only now BLUE has to tinkle so I let him water the grass near the front of the apartment complex and off we go.  SWOOSH is crying because he wants to go to McDs.  No way I say but it is way past their dinner time and I have to do something. 

The newly charged phone tells me the direction to Highway 285 and as soon as I merge, SWOOSH announces he needs to pee.  Again.  Off to the side I pull, out comes his wee fella for all the zooming cars to see and back in we get.  SKINNY announces that she, too, has to go potty again then adds “But I wait because I a girl and I can’t pee in the grass.”  I am proud beyond words because it was not too long ago that she was trying her darndest to master the standing up and peeing privilege that comes with owning a penis, including an incredibly unladylike incident which involved the raising of one leg and the trunk of a tree.  At a park.  A public park.  With other people around. 

Anyway, a few miles before I get home I pull into an IHOP because what can be easier than going to a restaurant with three 3 year olds alone?  My kids won’t eat fast food junk food so I order them pancake, eggs, and sausage.  SWOOSH complains that his food is not coming fast enough and I explain a restaurant is different that a fast food place. I order a bacon cheeseburger patty melt for myself because after this day I fucking deserve it. While they wait, they lick the salt and pepper shakers and count the knives and forks and spoons.  They spot a flag flapping in the breeze outside the window and they have recently made flags at school so we talk about the American flag and how special it is.  BLUE notes that it might even be more special if there were some green on it.  

Once our meals come they proceed to eat the sausage and drown the pancakes and eggs in blueberry and strawberry syrup. Not a few minutes after that SWOOSH announces he must pee. Again.  And when one goes, we all go. Not because I am afraid some pervert will diddle my kids but because I am afraid of what my kids will do to the bathroom.  The last thing SWOOSH says as we leave the table is “Lady no take my food, right?” Of course not, I reassure.  Clearly you see where this is going.  We get back to our empty table and the waitress apologizes profusely for the busboy who is obviously waaay more efficient at his job than she is at hers.  We wait for them to re-cook our order (cook our re-order?).  BLUE notes that it is getting dark outside and that means it is bedtime.  SKINNY busies herself licking the salt shaker, the pepper shaker, the blueberry syrup holder and random bits of crap on the table. SWOOSH sticks a straw into the ketchup holder because obviously that is the most efficient way to consume the number one food on the toddler nutritional pyramid. When our re-orders appear, SWOOSH points a knife at the waitress and says angrily “You not nice take my food!” I am exhausted but manage to mutter something about manners and how we talk to people.  Waitress then says, wow, all that syrup they’re eating is going to keep them up all night!

And it is this twenty-something kid who points out that feeding my toddlers syrup at 9:00pm is probably not a good idea.  My addled brain had not even come up with that.  I slink down into the booth because what the hell else am I going to do?  Once they are done shoving the pancakes aside so they can better slurp the syrup, I tell them it is time to go at which point they begin to run around the restaurant like crazy oompa-loompas hopping from one chair to a booth to more chairs and more booths.  There are only four other customers and I make not even the slightest show of being a proper parent and trying to stop them.  I pay the bill, leave a generous tip and, having figured out a long time ago that the threat of abandonment is the A-#1 way to get kids out of any establishment, I head out the front door calling “Bye-bye kids!”  They are at my side before I can get the car doors open.  They hop in back, I buckle them in, remind them of horrid physical consequences should they attempt to unbuckle themselves and then I plant myself in the driver seat. 

I can’t find the keys.  I also can’t find the new cell phone which is needed to call home and let my sister know that we have been in no tragic accident and we will be home soon. I ransack through the junk on the floor, box of old chicken fingers and fries from the day’s earlier snack, socks and shoes that have been tossed my way, mismatched toddler sandals, some wet stuff I wouldn’t even try to identify and then I remember where I ALWAYS forget the keys.  I roll down the driver window, reach through and pull the key out of the lock.

I take a breath and start the car.  The gas tank reads empty and I remember that it has done so since the highway to get home…12 or 13 miles ago.  It won’t take me home – 6.5 miles of which are on the highway.  In my 22 years behind the wheel of cars, I have never ever gotten stuck run out gas and I am not about to now.  I do a quick calculation in my head – new phone, American deli, IHOP and I figure I can spend $20 bucks on gas. 

I am about to put the car in reverse to head out to the gas station next door when it all of the sudden the day hits me and hits me hard.  I start crying.  The kiddoes are in the back oblivious.  Their syrup sugar high is in full effect. They have removed their shoes and socks.  My son SWOOSH is trying to pick his nostril using his big toe.  The two others are sticking their feet into each other’s faces, saying “Smell my stinky toes!” They are all laughing, laughing, laughing. 

As soon as I start to cry I realize that my tears are not about lack of money; they are not about not having a proper vehicle to transport the children, they are not about having decent, car seats in which for them to sit securely.  I am not crying because I wish I could provide better material things for them – piano, chess, more dance lessons, renew my $100 dollar membership to the zoo or pay for a private preschool where the teachers don’t giggle over my daughter’s natural hair or tell them that boys shouldn’t wear pink jackets or princess sneakers and feel free to drop the word “faggot” in conversation. I know it is not because I am bone tired, weary, depressed and facing another gosh knows how many hours with toddlers who will not be able to make their syrup filled bodies sleep. 

Like an accident victim whose life flashes before her eyes, all this goes through my mind in a millisecond of crying and my boohooing gets more intense.  I lay my head on the steering wheel and think about why I AM crying.  I am crying because I would never in my wildest dreams think I would end up where I am, dirt poor and with three children whose care GOD has seen fit to entrust to me. I am crying because despite my hardships and the knowledge that I am not a good material provider, in my deepest soul I know that the sometimes fuck-up I am is a good Mom who doesn’t deserve the gift that GOD has bestowed upon her: unbelievably deep love given and returned by chubby cheeked, wild eyed, destructive, intelligent, gorgeous, hilarious children.  I am crying because I realize that despite the exhaustion and poverty, the indignity of having to rely on food stamps and Medicaid, I would not change a single damn thing of the past thee plus years of my life if it meant never having or knowing these children.  I am crying because in the midst of this gosh awful day, the soothing words of a good friend have come to mind: “Sindy, you are blessed amongst women.”