The Tyrant has piled 14 cans of food, three plastic cups and two nail files atop a plastic cutting board. She says it’s a cupcake store. But it’s keeping her from shredding up the packing tape with kitchen shears, which frankly seemed a little dangerous. 

The Pterodactyl is eating chicken noodle soup for breakfast in hopes that it will cure him of fever (“Chicken soup makes you well, right, Mom?”) in time for his playdate, which it won’t. We are going to the doctor in one hour, and his mother has promised him that he won’t get a shot, possibly fudging the truth a bit.

The Diva has spent the morning making videos of herself dancing to Miley Cyrus’ insipid “Party in the U.S.A.,” a song which has woven itself into the fabric of my brain. I don’t mean that in a good way.

The mother - that’s me - is scoping out the front yard, devising a way in which she can do a workout within view of the roof being on fire and within earshot of the Tyrant’s Cupcake Store being razed. This probably won’t work unless the Tyrant agrees to entertain her 3-year-old self in the front yard while I sweat nearby. The child is utterly untrustworthy when it comes to avoiding trouble. On the bright side, she’s very proud of her mischief, and tells us about it in grand announcements: 

-- “Yook! I pee on da floor!” She can’t pronounce her “L’s” yet. 

-- “See? I put gum in da printah!”

-- “I got a yizard! I squeezing it!” 

And the dreaded, “I HIT YOU!”

But she’s happy this morning, especially when the Diva suggests it’s dress-up time, then expands the idea into Fancy Dress For the Doctor Day. Moms included.

So we arrive at Dr. Em’s office in fine form. The Diva wears the halter sundress her aunt gave her from Bloomingdale’s, accessorized by a black velvet jacket and wedge heels. The Tyrant sports a Lilly Pulitzer white eyelet dress (hand-me-down, of course; I can’t afford that crap), a pink velour track jacket and black patent leather Mary Janes. The Pterodactyl is the best - he’s dashing in a black tuxedo complete with tails and an enormous fake red flower on his lapel. Last year’s recital costume. I’m wearing a black skirt, gold lame top and Birkenstock sandals. We look like a pack of Ukrainian refugees. But we’ve all sprayed lavendar-scented Deva Curl Cleansing Hair Tonic on our heads, so we smell fabulous. 

Dr. Em is impressed; he’s even more impressed when the boy remains completely still while he shoves a test swab up his nose. To be honest, my kids are used to having things shoved up their noses because I am the founding member of the Boogie Patrol. Crusty noses creep me out and I just won’t have them in my house. 

Anyway, the Pterodactyl’s flu test is positive.

Oink. We’ve got a Swine Boy on our hands.

Plans evaporate before my eyes like electric orange powdered cheese dissolving in Easy Mac noodles. No workout today. No martinis at the neighbor’s house. No going out to lunch and letting my infected child hack fearsome germs into the public atmosphere.

And, oh yeah, my son has the illness making headlines across the world for its indiscriminate fatality rate. There’s that. 

I’m sure he’ll be fine.

A few hours later: he’s on a Motrin high, painting masterpieces including an apple tree, a jack-o-lantern and a portrait of his fish, Bluey. We’ve all converted to comfortable housewear, or in the Tyrant’s case, a state of natural being, though she still is clomping about in the patent leather shoes. The rain outside is making me sleepy. I’m sick of watching Max and Ruby, Ruby and Max, Max and Ruby, Ruby and Max, Max and his big sister Ruby, Ruby and her little brother Max. Shooting bunnies suddenly seems like a completely reasonable idea. 

And no one (except me) has eaten anything in hours. The Diva’s at her friend’s house, but she brought a bag of Goldfish with her, so that’s probably what she had for lunch. The Tyrant has eaten all the marshmallows out of a box of Lucky Charms, and Swine Boy has had four sips of apple juice which he drank to eradicate the taste of the anti-viral TAMIFLU. The pharmacy only had capsules, so I pulled it apart and dumped the powder into his dose of Motrin - then spent the next 10 minutes begging, cajoling, threatening and using brute strength to force the concoction into his mouth. He retaliated by spitting ribbony saliva all over my favorite sofa throw. 

Now it’s 4 pm on a Friday afternoon, and I totally deserve a cocktail. My new CoolMax skullcap-style headwraps arrived in the mail today, and I’m wearing the one that has tribal markings on it. I look like the cocktail should be a little Mad Dog on the rocks, which incidentally can lead to No Good when mixed with grape-flavored Reunite and served in 20-oz plastic cups. 

But I’m not going to have a cocktail at least until the kids go to bed, because the Pterodactyl’s fever will return and he’ll need my patience, the Tyrant is already threatening to throw a shoe at my head and the Diva will want to stay up late and watch iCarly reruns because it’s Friday night and there’s no school tomorrow. 

All normal stuff. It’s a normal life. Which of course is what makes it so very extraordinary.