My Life's a TV Sitcom..or Maybe a Movie Parody?

I swear, lately my life is turning into a National Lampoon's movie. If something can malfunction, be forgotten, break, or go wrong, then the universal law of movie parodies says it must be so. It's gotten to the point where I'm pretty sure I could start writing weekly episodes and sell them to a sitcom. I'd be the adorkable, organized Mom with my goofy big man child of a husband. We'd have the older nerdy son, the trouble making middle daughter, and the rambunctious youngest son.

For instance, picture Mom (I'll play that part for this scenario) grocery shopping with the middle daughter like child. Baby boy wanted to go but Daddy took his booster seat out and forgot to put it back in mom's car. He now has to be pacified with a "treat" which turns out to be nutritionally delicious Spaghettios and m & m's. (I can't make this up. That's truly what he wanted.)

An hour and a half later, we return home to find Baby boy and big brother waiting to see what goodies Mom has brought them. We cannot find the bag with the Spaghettios. We check the car. Nope. We check the rest of the bags in the house. Nothing. Hmm. After a quick call to the store, we find out that a bag was left there. Great. One job and I blew it. Thank heavens that the m & m's weren't in the same bag or I'd really have been in trouble.

Or how about: The oldest son is scheduled for oral surgery. Both Dad and I are home and I'm thinking this is going to be a piece of cake. Until Baby boy wakes up crying that morning complaining of a stomach ache. Now I'm running around trying to get ice packs and ice cream for one and a blanket and some Tylenol for the other. In between I'm trying to make jello, fold laundry, wash dishes, and ask Baby boy for the 37th time in an hour if he's sure he doesn't feel like he has to throw up or go to the bathroom. I'm contemplating the benefits of cloning for situations such as this while feeding the oldest painkillers and the youngest juice.

Want more?  Fast forward to later that night. I've gotten ready for bed and am just about to crawl into the bliss that is my cozy bed when hubby comes in to say that he thinks Baby boy might have had an accident because "he walked by his room and smelled poop". Great. Because what I REALLY wanted to do at 11:30 at night was to wash out shitty SpongeBob underwear while Baby boy gets a hiney tub scrub from Daddy. Ten minutes later he's clean and in fresh jammies and I'm scrubbing my hands with antibacterial soap fourteen times like Lady Macbeth while muttering, "Out damn crap scent, out!"

Every month we could have one show about the current malfunctioning or broken gadget in our house. Because there's always at least 1 (or 7). We could have guest appearances from the Toilet Paper Troll and the Milk Monster. (Their PR firm did mention they needed more positive publicity.) Hey, now that I think about it, this might not be such a bad idea after all. If anyone's going to profit from the hilarious mayhem of our lives, it really should be us, right?

Is there an agent in the house?