BUCKING THE SYSTEM: THE BEST-LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN SOMETIMES JUST FALL APART

For the past week I've been commuting from Charleston with my family, and it's been only a little worse than the gallstone attacks I had last winter.

The problem is not the 30-minute drive down the interstate and through Diehlstadt. I know every bump and curve of that stretch like the back of my hand and can drive it in even the worst weather.

No, the problem has been my constant need to locate and placate my two sons while trying to drive a car, talk on a telephone or write a story.

It all started Sunday when my dad told me he had found someone to sand and refinish the hardwood floors of my house. The guy and his partner started early Monday morning, moving three rooms' worth of furniture into the kitchen and upstairs.

"We'll be done in three days," they promised.

Since they had planned to arrive before 8 a.m., I decided the kids and I would spent the night at my parents' house rather than returning home after church on Sunday. I figured we'd stay there until after choir practice Wednesday night, giving the kids a nice little visit with Granny and PawPaw.

The grandparents would make excellent baby sitters, giving Patrick and me a chance to go see something other than a G-rated movie.

It was a good plan, especially since I also would have two extra pairs of hands to keep the kids contained and entertained and someone other than myself to do the cooking.

What I didn't expect was that both kids would get sick and I would catch pink eye in both eyes, and that was just on Monday. Then Patrick had to work extra shifts in addition to his already full schedule, which meant if he didn't call or stop by my office during the day, we didn't get to see each other.

And then the floor guys needed more time. The project slated to end Wednesday extended to Friday. And the guys finishing my basement neglected to hook up my laundry room, which meant I had to haul dirty clothes to my parents' house before I could wash them.

And there were other complications. For example, Dad was working afternoons all week, which meant it was more of a nuisance than a pleasure for him when his grandsons would start yelling "PawPaw" at the top of their lungs bright and early every morning. AND he was unavailable as a baby sitter.

And to top it all off, the Charleston's boys basketball team is in district play this week. Mom is a true supporter of her students and needed to go to those games because "I told those little boys I'd be there whenever I could."

Not that my parents haven't been helping me at nearly every turn. It's just that they are grandparents, which meant when they had something they wanted to do, they got to do it without guilt.

I envy them.

With all the complications, I pretty well gave up after Wednesday. I knew all was lost Thursday morning when I realized that my recently detailed car looks like a garbage dump again. The remains of two nights' worth of fast-food dinners are scattered between PJ's and Jerry's car seats, and my front passenger's seat is a jumble of CD cases, empty water bottles, notepads and assorted papers.

Hopefully, everything will return to normal after this weekend. I'll move back home if all goes well, clean up the mess from having other people in my house for seven days, rewash the laundry Patrick's been doing all week, and get settled. Again.

Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.