Yesterday, I was waiting for the elevator with the baby in my arms. My 5-year-old and my 3-year-old got into the elevator when it arrived. So did I. But when my 7-year-old and his friend didn’t appear, I stepped out of the elevator to yell at them for the fifth time.

“The elevator’s here!” I bellowed. “Get your sneakers on and get in it right now.”

My 5-year-old must have followed me out of the elevator because the next thing I knew, the elevator was going down, with my 3-year-old on board and shrieking at the top of her lungs.

I could hear her wailing get softer and softer and then louder and louder again.

“Kira, don’t worry,” I yelled frantically into the crack between the door and the elevator shaft. “Just stay on the elevator and you’ll be back in a few seconds.”

My oldest son and his friend were laughing. I had to restrain myself from reaching over and slapping them.

Although I could still hear Kira yelping, when the elevator opened, much to my dismay, she wasn’t in it.

More laughing from the older boys. More restraining on my part.

We all got in the elevator and I pushed a few buttons and when the elevator opened there was Kira, terrified. She was next to an old man, who looked horrified.

“You really should watch your children more carefully,” he told me imperiously.

“Thanks,” I said. “Good advice.” I pushed “door close” furiously.

I could tell that like Alexander, the character in Judith Viorst’s beloved children’s book, I was going to have a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

I had punished my oldest for laughing, which I regretted now that the episode was over. I could see that he was laughing nervously, as I might have had it not been my child. I had already punished him and that was that. But I still felt bad, so I spent the next half-hour playing nice.

The second we got into the car, the five children started fighting about who was going to sit where. Kira was still crying because of her elevator scare, and now there was one other child crying, as well.

By the time we sorted out the seating arrangements, Kira yelped, “I have to go to the bathroom.” While I normally get aggravated hearing those words five minutes after we’ve left the apartment, I certainly wasn’t going to show her my irritation – not after the elevator incident.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

At bowling, the friend of my oldest ran down the lane to see if he could manually do what his bowling ball could not – knock down the last pin. He almost got his arm chopped off and we all nearly got kicked out of the alley.

Later, back at home, in the second round of my boys’ favorite invented game, Wall Ball, my oldest flew into my youngest in an effort to reach the ball before it had a second bounce. The youngest was howling loudly, which I ignored until I noticed that his shirt was soaked with blood. Now I understand how second and third children lose their teeth.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

I made a mild red chicken curry for dinner, my oldest’s favorite. I added just a bit of curry so that the younger children would eat it, too. “It was much better the last time you made it,” the oldest said. “It’s not spicy enough.”

“It’s burning my mouth,” the youngest groaned.

“Gross,” the 5-year-old said.

I couldn’t find the 3-year-old’s special blanket.The baby, on the verge of walking, managed to climb up on the coffee table and then fall off. Both boys needed to return their library books the next day.

“If we don’t return them, we can’t take out new books,” they moaned in unison. I had no idea where the books were.

The three oldest joyfully jumped into a bubble bath, and when I came back 30 seconds later with a new bottle of baby shampoo, they had managed to nearly flood the bathroom. They were hysterical. I was hysterical. There are different kinds of hysteria.

Before bed, they all had chocolate milk. One of them spilled the milk all over the table. The other two laughed. Restrain, restrain, restrain.

It was finally time for bed, for them and for me. It had been a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day. But some days are just like that, even for parents.

sarasberman@aol.com