It's the SpongeBob backpack all over again

Ouch!

Okay-- so I missed my postal deadline, I almost forgot to order Squish's cake, the house is a mess, little girls are arriving Saturday, and I have a week after that before the car needs to be packed, my hair, face, and nails need to be done, and I'm driving to Vegas.

OH fuck.

I need to get the car checked out so the AC doesn't die in the middle of the desert.

ZOMG--AND I NEED GAS TOMORROW!

And this fucking edit is ginormous.  Like, four different voices chiming in on my work. I think in the end it will be worth it but atm, it's consuming my life, and my consciousness.

And I need to get Squish's birthday present.

And remember to get Zoomboy a copy of The Force Awakens because he's such a good sport.

And... oh God.

There's something.

I know there is.

A vet appointment, the dog's flea treatment, a pile of cat crap somewhere, piles of laundry, do I need nylons again?

I remember last year at this point Mate yelled at me for spending money and I was like, "Do you have any idea what I'm DOING in the span of three weeks?"

Ditto.

And I don't even have an answer because he's been predictably busy and I haven't been able to bounce anything off of him.

Anyway--Squish's birthday party is on Saturday--and the last thing she said to me was, "You know, Mommy? I still like Monster High."

So, I need to make this one good. I need to make it count. Because she's ten, and she's heading for her teen years at warp speed, and right now she's so happy--God, I don't want to let her down.

Anyway, so tonight I remembered to order the cake tomorrow and had a panic attack because I almost forgot it entirely.

I'm still panicking. Can you tell?

Back-- WAY back--nine or ten years ago-- I wrote this freaked out, panicky post about how I forgot the kids' SpongeBob backpack when I dropped them off at daycare. I didn't realize that it was during the sixth week of school (yes--that sixth week, during which a hangnail becomes armageddon and armageddon becomes an excuse to flunk English, the fifth grade, or Kindergarten) and how dropping that one ball was the lynchpin of the entire Rupe Goldberg Machine that was my life at the time.

A lot of people were really reassuring, and then I realized, "Oh. This is the sixth week."

I'm starting to suspect the same thing here, only, "Oh, it's a week before RT and you've been dealing with kid-thing after kid thing and they haven't let up."

Which means I'll feel better tomorrow.

But right now, I'm going to bed so I can obsess about how I'm ruining my children's childhood one dropped ball at a time.