Yesterday was a horrid day. Not horrid in the 'zombies attacked my town' sense, but the more mundane 'three kids home with various ailments' horrid.

We started off the morning with whining and demands for astounding new breakfast foods, served by a food-eating battle monkey (thanks Busymom!)and featuring a music and light show. I had only ordinary breakfast foods. Lo, there were tantrums.

Shortly thereafter, it was time to get the kids ready for a trip to the doctor's office.

*insert screaming here*

It was like a barrel racing event at the rodeo, man. I was zigging and zagging between the dresser and the kid and the closet and the other kid and the dryer and the last kid, trying to keep my circles tight and not knock anything over. I should have envisioned this part as whatever the event is called where they hogtie a calf because that would have been helpful.

They cried over the inferior breakfast. They cried over wearing shoes. They sobbed over teeth brushing. The howled when I attempted to brush their hair. I gritted my teeth and winced as I tried to get all three into the van without their voices, united in fury and woe, shattering the neighbor's windows.

"Waa waa waa waaa waa wa waaa waaaah."

I know I actually explained to them how I expected them to behave at the doctor's office (or anywhere, really) but I don't think they heard me over all the bawling. I just turned up the CD and sang along with "Life is Wonderful."

When did I get so callous to their cries? Probably when they started crying about breakfast cereal and sitting in the back seat as opposed to the middle seat.

The doctor's office was a disaster. All three kids were great in the waiting room, but as soon as they put us in the padded holding cell, their chimpanzee ancestry became apparently. "Ooh-ooh-ah!" They ricocheted around the room, touching everything.

"Hey, let's read a book!" I pulled the first one off the stack. It's Old MacDonald's Farm. Rock on.

I led the kids in a rousing rendition of Old MacDonald's Farm. Ah! Happy kids singing joyously. I am an AWESOME MOTHER.

That lasted until it was time to sing about the first animal. And on his farm he had a cow..."

"Nooo, M-O-M he had a pig!"

"The book says cow."

"Pig!"

My youngest chimed in with an ear splitting "Cock-a-doodle-dooooo!"
My son just started sobbing again, shoulders shaking and nose running.
"What is it?" I am baffled.

"It is supposed to be a baa-baa here and baa-baa there."

The doctor walked in on our heated animal noise discussion. The kids were good for about thirty seconds, and then they resumed their ping-ponging off hard surfaces. I forced the six year old into a chair, strapped the two year old into her stroller and held my son tight on my lap. Our conversation was hurried, and we agreed to do any follow up via email.

I am NOT an awesome mother.

We blasted a hole in the side of the building with the sonic shock created by my children's lilting voices, and with me blithely apologizing to all civilians within earshot, we tra-la-aaargh-la'd our way to the van.

Back at home, I decided it was nap time for everyone. They decided it wasn't. I flexed my considerable mommy muscles and sent my oldest to her room to play, put my son on my bed with educational TV on, and snuggled my youngest up on her bed. After fifteen minutes, the baby was asleep, but my oldest had entered the room with her brother, and was gleefully keeping him awake.

They were giggling and wrestling around. I snarled something around the door frame about not hurting themselves and stop it and I mean it now, you two. I untangled myself from the baby's grasp and headed to the kitchen to get a drink. Moments later, there was a giant *thwack* and then my daughter started screaming.

My son was hiding under the bed, while my daughter sat in the middle of the mattress, mouth bloody. She had smacked her upper front teeth on my iron bed frame in a WWF-approved move. Luckily, the teeth were still intact, and the blood was from a cut frenulum, not some other major injury. Still, she was scared, and it took a long time to calm her down.

I was scared too. What if I had to take them to the dentist's office?

Luckily, a phone call to the dentist confirmed that we could treat it at home. I snuggled my little bruisers up in blankets on two different couches.

Returning to the scene of the face-bashing, I looked for any blood on the sheets or blankets. Instead, I found that my son had written the entire alphabet on the wall beside the bed. Hey! He can write the whole alphabet... hey wait a minute. That's not okay! A few test scrubs revealed that a fresh coat of paint is in my near future.

Head spinning, I march out to the living room to discuss this new discovery, and find my youngest, squatting in the hallway, eating a stick of butter.

I confiscated the butter, and ran a bath. Then I made myself a cup of coffee.

My husband arrived home to find me shaking and ranting to myself. He stepped effortlessly into the 'good cop' role, discussing the day's events rationally and calmly. I stood in the back, waving my finger around, hand on my hip, but finally finding a little bit of humor.

Midway through his talk with the kids, he spontaneously decided to demonstrate armpit farts. Fascinated, my kids crowded around, as their father did the funky chicken, accompanied by crude noises. My son HAD TO LEARN THAT RIGHT NOW. I watched as my husband passed on the sacred knowledge to my children. I watched as he gently encouraged them, and assured them that with enough practice, they too could make disgusting noises with their pits.

I know it sounds crazy, but seriously, that break in the mood, that unbridled silliness made me swoon a little bit.