The Bank Brouhaha

It was supposed to be a quick trip to the bank.  My new banking guru at Washington Trust had called to tell me:
1.  The hold is off my new accounts (YAY!)
2.  The accounts for my kids were all established (Double YAY!)
3.  I could come in any time to sign signature cards and fund the accounts.  Oh.

(Let me take a second to pause in this story and reiterate that my banker called me.  Personally.  On my cell phone.  Twice, actually.  The first was to get my kids' SS#'s because I had forgotten them when I went to open the account the first time.  "Don't come down again," she said, "I'll call you tomorrow morning and you can tell me then.  What time would work for you?"  I am REALLY liking my bank right now!)

But back to the task at hand.  This time I would have to physically take my two charming children into the bank and sign papers.  Have you ever banked with a four-year old and a two-year old?  I'm sure there are more exquisite forms of torture, but I personally have yet to encounter them.  

Today the fun begins before we even leave the house.  My sweet daughter, who generally likes to dress herself and show off what a big girl she is, for some reason decides she cannot stand her shoes and coat and will not be caught dead in them.

Splendid.

I manage to force her into her gear only to have her rip off her coat again.  She and I have already tussled a few times prior to this, so I do what every good Mom would do.  I check the thermostat, see it's in the upper 50's and say, "Fine.  Go without a coat."  (It's 8 minutes up the road . . . what can go wrong?)

By the time we get to the bank, it's starting to drizzle.  Great.  Now I'm taking a 2-yr. old into the rain without a coat.  Mother of the Year material right here.

Then we sit down with the banker.  As I'm signing papers, my son flips her desk calendar to a different date.  I scold him and tell him to apologize.  He won't.  He's embarrassed.  He's not the only one.  I put him in time out by my chair until he decides to apologize. 

By this time, my daughter wants to wander around the bank.  I hold her hand to keep her still.  She proceeds to throw herself on the floor and SCREAM non-stop for 5 minutes.  Oh yeah.  Right there in the middle of the bank.

Yippee.

The banker, who has probably quit her job and run as fast as she could to my old bank for a new job, keeps saying, "Just a couple minutes more," with a steady smile.
Finally, the papers are signed, my son has apologized, and my daughter stands up beaming a beautific grin.  The patrons who are just coming in comment on how delightful my children are.

And I stumble away feeling like Wesley after the Machine has sucked one year from his life.