The father figure gave the car a tune up this weekend.

It was good enough to get me thirty minutes away from home. It was not good enough to get me back home. And that's how I spent my afternoon, sitting out in ninety degree heat, realizing that over the course of my marriage I had learned to recognize the tell tale signs of a dead battery. And that I had developed the ability to call the father figure, when the car had ceased working, and remain calm.

And the father figure learned that if he gives a car a 100,000 mile tune up, he should probably go ahead and switch out the original battery. Because at 100, 100 the battery will die. Provided his wife is driving....and all five children are accompanying her. Because, if he doesn't, his wife will overpay for a battery that is delivered to her car. And not even care.

X-Man was fascinated by the battery replacement process. He narrated loudly "He fixing the tar mommy. It's fixing!" I shared his glee. Especially since Cinco's source of entertainment involved dumping her siblings drinks into the parking lot and attempting to skate on the ice cubes. The result was three very annoyed siblings and one utterly filthy baby. She managed to not just fall on the parking lot pavement, but also the surrounding bark dust. The bark dust in which X-Man stood observing the need for AAA in everyone's life. Between that and the general grime that is found inside a car engine, he wasn't representing the family about better than his sister. One look at the two of them and I made the executive decision that our path inside the house would require a detour through the kiddie pool.

Somehow this backfired and resulted in clothing strewn all over the backyard and my toddlers' naked, still dirty bodies, now also sporting dead grass. Which sticks rather tenaciously to a child's body unless it is the vicinity of a wood floor, then it simply attaches itself to the floor and replicates in a manner similar to rabbits.

It all seemed a fitting end to the weekend. Baba spent the weekend away at a soccer tournament. She returned downright bubbly, sporting a shiny gold medal. The father figure was working out of town and left the other four with grandma as I was in an entirely different state---which is generally referred to as confusion--attending meetings. The children ended up spending the weekend with grandma as when the father figure drives my car all sorts of warning light illuminate. So he spent the weekend discovering Detroit decided to hide spark plugs way in the back of that huge engine he so loved.

For whatever reason, Cinco decided that this all was my fault. Or something. She was clearly disgruntled with me when I returned home. She sat, pointedly, on the couch when I walked in the door, refusing to great me as her siblings did. When I tried to hug her, she leaned back into the cushions, while refusing to look at me. And when the father figure had to leave, she insisted on going with him. The father figure asked her if she wanted to stay home with mommy she wrapped her arms around his neck and loudly declared "NO!"

When they returned, Cinco ran up and clambered into my nap and snuggled deep into me. Apparently she was under the impression that it was her and the father figure against the world. Furthermore, she would have free reign within the duo. The father figure was not of the same mind and did indeed actually tell her "No." At least once. Disenchanted with that partnership, she deigned to acknowledge my existence. Any port in a storm.