The instant I hear it, realization dawns on me that the car door slamming outside my house is the repairman coming to fix my front door. He is talking REALLY loudly to someone, but that’s the perfect reminder I needed that he was fixing my door today. He had called a mere three hours before, saying today was the day he would be fixing my front door. Unfortunately due to the craziness in my household, (sick twins, dog recovering from knee operation, nanny called off sick) I had totally forgotten. At that very moment, I was having a “nap battle” with Mason -he had only slept 40 minutes instead of the usual hour and a half. A coughing fit (remnants of his croup) had woken him and he didn’t want to go to sleep. I looked at him and I think he realized that he had just won the battle.
I race downstairs with Mason in my arms, trying to find the spare door parts that had been sent to us months before. I remembered seeing them in our study, in a small brown box a little larger than my hand. So I scan the study….brown box, brown box, brown box and find nothing. I start calling Sean on his cell and after three unanswered attempts, I realize that it must be on silent. Sean has taken to sleeping on the third floor when he is on night shifts, thanks to it being made relatively sound proof, and therefore sleeping during the day becomes easier.
The doorbell rings, Carrie Bradshaw (you know, my dog) is barking her ferocious bark. I open the door, and the repairman is greeted by a barking dog with a cone on her head, an overwhelmed mom with a halo of frizz on her head, still in her PJ’s and with a toddler on her hip.
I say “Oh hi, I forgot you were coming!” and he answers me with a quizzical look, as I had just assured him a few hours earlier how lovely it would be that he was coming to fix our door that very day.
I gesture him in, as I restrain the dog with my free hand. Little does he know he has just entered a mad house. A house of twin boys, sick twin boys, and all that brings with it.
“I just have to find the door part” I say as I run back into the study for another scan (while I leave cone-head dog to watch over him)…brown box, brown box, brown box and find nothing. I rush out the study, still with Mason on my hip and tell him I’m just going to ask my hubby where it is.
I traipse up three flights of stairs with all 24lbs of Mason, throw the door to the loft open, and scream up, “Sean where is the door part?” And he replies, “in the study, next to the box we keep the bills in.” Mason starts coughing and I hear his daddy say “Oh, poor baby”
Down the stairs… and at the first landing I know what’s about to happen as Mason’s cough starts to sound “productive”. Yup, he throws up. I tilt him slightly forward so I don’t become the target, dodge the vomit, and keep walking down the stairs, leaving the vomit behind. At the next landing it happens again, but this time we are in eye sight of the repair man, and cough, SPLAT… more puke as I tip Mason forward and once again keep moving.
Now on the first floor, in perfect view Mason continues to cough and I look at the man and say, “I just need to get the part….” And tilt, SPLAT, another pile of vomit. At this the man says, “if you just tell me where it is I can get it.” A little panic in his eyes.
Yeah, right I think to myself. Have you seen the study? When we have people over for cocktails they often comment on how the house has been transformed from “crazy twin town” to an elegant home once again. Well the study has not been “transformed” and if I can’t find it, there is no way this guy will have a chance. He probably has a better chance at winning the lottery than finding that part. So I dismiss his kind offer and once again head into the study.
I go to the place I know I had just looked twice before, and low and behold there isn’t a brown box at all, but the actual part is lying there in plain sight. I grab it and turn to leave, but poor Mason isn’t done yet. Cough, tilt, SPLAT. We have this dance move perfected. I know the repair guy just heard Mason, so as I hurry out of the study and continue to pretend that everything is “fine and normal”, I hand him the part. He takes it quickly and gets to work. I’ve never seen a guy work so fast. I say something witty to him about it not always being like this around here, and that I’ve been dealing with sick twins. And he sweetly says “I just feel sorry for the little guy”. Who wouldn’t after puking four times in a row?
Anyway, I now get to give Mason a little more love and attention and he throws up again. You know the dance… and so I just sit on the floor with him and pat his back gently and rock my poor baby. After a few minutes I get up and head to the couch. I read Mason a story while he sips some water, and what seems like thirty seconds later, this VERY complex door job is completed. The repair man says he is done, so I ask “does it latch without having to pull up the handle?” and I go to stand up but he quickly says with one hand out stretched, “Oh, no need to get up. I can show you from here!” Poor man. I don’t think he has ever worked harder and faster to get out of any house.
I asked him how much I owed him and he said “no charge”. Awesome, I just got a sick kid discount! I guess I have earned it with these boys both having croup, fevers, puking, ear infections and the dreaded febrile seizure all in a matter of days.
Anyway, when Sean finally rouses he asks how much the door cost and I say “$150” and he just nods and says OK. For a split second I’m thinking, “great, massage here I come!” but I later admitted I was only joking, it didn’t cost a cent. Maybe just my reputation. I know he went home or to the office and told someone about the house with a cone-head dog, an overwhelmed mom with a halo of frizz on her head, still in her PJ’s and with a toddler on her hip – oh and the dreaded SPLAT!