No Touching my Coffee

It’s 1:00 and I have a splitting headache. I tried to warm up some coffee from yesterday but it turned out too rancid for human consumption. I’m tired and hungry and the boys are having an unauthorized mud fight in the back yard.
The thought of a cool, frothy iced coffee propels me to get the boys together for a trip to the store for a frozen pizza and my coveted coffee.
A quick wipe down and a couple clean shirts later, we’re piling into the Jeep. Before I turn the key in the ignition, I can already hear (thud), “Ow!”, (thud), “Ow!”, (thud)…. The boys are taking turns punching each other in the chest. I choose to forgo the standard ‘rules of the car’ speech and instead declare “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!”
A few ear-piercing, head splitting miles later, I lean out the window to receive the ice-cold mocha covered in whipped cream into my anxious and shaking hands. For a few precious seconds, all talking ceases as I take my first sip. Ah, sweet nectar of life! Then, as if someone suddenly turned off a mute button, a bevy of “I want some!”, “Can I have a drink?!”, “Mama! Me!!” and “Waah!” ring out among a multitude of hands all grabbing and pushing at the same time. “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!” is all I can manage while I struggle to maintain ownership of my small cup of salvation.
While driving to the store, I occupy my mind with ideas of inventions that would hold a coffee cup around your neck so that a small nod of your head would bring it’s soothing relief instantly to your lips, but before I can perfect my design, we are parking and piling out of the car.
Once inside the store, I make the horrific realization that bucking the baby into the cart will require both of my hands, so begrudgingly I call Josh over and explain to him that he is it to HOLD my coffee and DO NOT DRINK! I struggle with several different carts before finding one that will both buckle and roll and turn to tenderly receive my frothy gift from the gods. The site that waits before me is both of astonishment and horror. My hands are frozen, extended in the air and my mouth drops open in a silent scream. Josh is standing there with the straw, the passage of liquid life from the Holy Grail into my Temple, stuck completely up his nose.
“Wha… why…” I stammer.
Beginning to realize that he might be doing something wrong, Josh begins pulling the length of straw from his oozing nasal passages and says “What? I wasn’t drinking it.”

It’s 2:00 and my head is pounding. The boys are all piled back in the car each holding a package of cookies and a frozen pizza. Even the baby seemed to grab contraband items from the shelves as I walked through the store in a zombie like state. The ice in my coffee is melting and the whipped cream is coagulating into chunks among the watery liquid which now has an unmistakably green tinge to it. My stomach starts to churn as I look at the crusty straw. The back seat sounds like a rowdy saloon full of sailors on leave as they sing and pound back cookies like shots of whiskey.
I turn to address the mutinous crowd and, through clenched teeth, say “No talking. No touching.”