Say 'Ahhhh'

Yesterday was an auspicious day in the Uebbing household, and by that I mean every member of the adult team got a shower.

Also, we went for a dental triple threat mid-workday, in which 3/4 of our members climbed into the 'ol saddle for a scraping/buffing/flossing with piano wire session to the very reasonable tune of $340 bones.

Feeling stupidly optimistic and even a teensy bit excited about 'getting away from it all' at the spa waiting room complete with current editions of US Weekly and BHG and a Keurig and refrigerated bottled water and a clean, non-germ infested kiddy corner, I packed up both kids and swooped by the office to pick up Daddy for a real family outing. Because the family that x-rays together, stays together. Because they've seen all eachother's secrets...

But I digress.

No sooner had I settled in for a comfortable catch up session on Jessica Simpson's latest pregnancy and Selena and Bieber's latest reconciliation than Dave decided to excuse himself to the restroom sans kiddo.

Fine.

25 seconds later, JP and Joey were vying heroically to capture my undivided attention, one via frantic nursing and the other via squatting into business position and screaming 'clean and dry Mommy!' causing the receptionist's face to melt into a mask of anticipatory horror. I believe I fed her fears by asking Joey if he needed to use the potty, thus confirming her suspicions that he was indeed potty training and might not have been wearing the appropriate undergarments for hazard control purposes. (He was. We're not sadists.)

Nevertheless, I sprang into action, not wanting to alarm the receptionist further. Most likely flashing her with a stray boob shot, I scooped up the offending squatter and made for the door to the lobby elevator, where another bathroom awaited us. Joey screamed pleasantly about wanting to push the buttons, and I ignored him as we sprinted from the elevator towards the bathroom.

The thing is, he just isn't turning in the 100 meter times we'd like to see from him these days, in spite of his high carbohydrate and chocolate coconut milk diet. So I ought not have been surprised when I turned to usher him in the bathroom door and instead saw the elevator doors closing in front of his horrified face.

Mommeeeeeeeeeeee!

Um.

Joey? Joey!! Joey don't touch any of the buttons. (Frantically hitting the up button trying to call the elevator back)

Beep beep beeeeeeeeep. Hello, Denver county 911, what is your emergency, elevator occupants?

Shit.

As Joey wailed his woes into the listening ear of an unsuspecting emergency operator, I sprinted upstairs to catch the elevator on its return trip. Except it had gone to the basement.

Joey, get off when the elevator opens again! Can you hear me?

Mommeeeeeeeeeeeee, are you?! Mommy? 

Does anyone need emergency assistance at this location? I repeat, does anyone need emergency...

Suddenly I caught a glimpse of blonde hair in the open stairwell 3 floors below me. Tucking the large baby into a football hold, I sprinted down to subground level and scooped up one very naughty toddler into my free arm for a Heisman dash back to the foyer.

Hello? Does anybody need assistance?

Where was the damn elevator? It was still somewhere between floors, but the operator's increasingly concerned voice was ringing out for all office dwelling inhabitants to hear.

Crouching low next to the closed elevator doors, a baby under each arm, I whispered furtively that we were fine, that everyone was fine, before slinking back into the dentist's waiting room. Dave was looking at me quizzically, no doubt impressed at the sweat I'd managed to break in under 3 minutes.

Just squeezing in some cardio, dear, I snarled at him, tossing both kids his way before enthusiastically volunteering to go first.

The rest of the appointment went swimmingly, filled with blood curdling screams, awkward discussions of Italian real estate and gas prices with a gloved fist in my mouth, and snippets of truly enjoyable QT with my youngest, who perched disarmingly on my stomach while Dr. Cheerful scraped away and regailled me with tales of moms who had breastfed in the chair before, don't you worry about a thing.

Smiiiiiiile.

Naturally, Joey let exactly no one near his mouth, screamed like a wounded animal when deposited into the chair, and earned himself a super bouncy ball, a new toothbrush, and a gentle pat pat on the head and an invitation to come back and try again in a year or 6.

We'll almost definitely be back never.
 
On our merry way out, he called the bleeping fire department again.

Don't worry, I made Dave answer this time. I'm sure they didn't know it was the same negligent parent-offspring duo.

I'm sure.