OMG BIG FLAMING BALL OF PEAR-SHAPED CALAMITOUS PARENTING DRAMA

You know how, in parenthood, when things start to go a bit sideways, it's like teetering on a the precipice of a half-pipe with a snowboard strapped on your feat and no athletic ability whatsoever? And then, one little thing, and the whole caboodle goes down in a flaming ball of pear-shaped calamity? Or is that just me? I dunno. But I do know, HELLO, that's exactly how I spent my Monday evening.

It all started when I was stranded in suburbia, car-less, friendless, with only a landline as my only connection to the outside world.

I was supposed to drive my dad to the airport late in the afternoon, but in true EPB style, we had not established a clear plan, or even confirmed the time of his flight. We like to leave everything to chance and trust the universe. We're hippies, remember?

A couple hours before I assumed he'd be home, I started calling, you know, just to confirm that he still existed and so too did his travel plans. No answer. Phone off, office voicemail full. My emails went unanswered, so I called my mum, who I assumed to be somewhere in the wilds of the Michigan interstate. No answer either. Phone off. 

And then, right on cue, my girl gets sick with the kind of sickness that could be no biggie, just a run of the mill kind of little kid thing, or something that could be like a super big deal, SERIOUS SCARY PROBLEM.

Might I remind you that I'm stuck in a suburban wasteland, a community to which I have no ties, no friends, and only a primitive understanding of it's geography. Oh, and also, no car, no way to reach anyone. 

My first instinct was to turn to Dr. Google (a terrible idea, for the diagnosis with Dr. G. is always one of two things: Cancer or Doom). 

Finally, moments before he is to depart for the airport, my Pops arrives at home in a flurry of unpacked suitcases and uncharged computers, and I'm all, "Dad, I need to take Stella to the doctor,"and after a heated exchange and a suggestion of a complicated plan involving exchanging cars mid-freeway, and ARE YOU SURE SHE NEEDS TO GO because I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TAKE A TAXI, we both come to our scenes and ask the neighbour to give him a lift. Which, thankfully, the neighbour was able to do. Rest assured, said neighbour will be repaid in ice cream and eternal gratitude.

I somehow, miraculously, found my way to the doctor's office with no GPS, had S checked out (FINE! No biggie! {we think}) and then called my dad to make she he'd made it alright. And wouldn't you know it, his flight was canceled. A big flipped bird and evil chackeling from the universe, me thinks. 

An hour's drive to the airport, another hour back, a 6 PM car nap, and crazysauce pre-sickies baby later, we made it back home way past bedtime.

But, there was an easy dinner it the fridge, a bottle of wine in the cupboard, and some perhaps some baby melatonin to usher an over excited over tired baby to bed.

I'm not sure what lessons can be drawn from this story, or what to conclude, other than please turn on your cell phones and check your voicemail.

Then end.