In Which I Ask You to Sit Back and (not) Hold Your Breath

Ya'll. Seriously. I don't know if my skills are up to the story-telling level that this is gonna take.
I feel like I should do bullet points for the various incidents of the past week, and leave it at that.

Did you ever have a week that included candy stuck in the throat and the ER, a fire under your van's hood, a crazed neighbor's epileptic seizure, the rescue of said neighbor's baby from the street, an unexpected sewer blowout and downstairs back-up, a furnace burnout and replacement and a big Auburn win?

I have.
And in the very week that I mantra-ed focus! Ya'll. I just want to keep shaking my head and saying "Ya'll." It conveys such a wealth of (over)whelmed feeling. Ya'll! What is going on!

Let me knock this out for you.
Wednesday: Isabella, while seated at the table, swallows a whole peppermint. It lodges in her esophagus somewhere, not stopping her breathing, but aching and staying put. Hello, ER. It dissolved and she was fine, just a few throat-scratches.

Saturday: Upon returning from the store, I pull into the garage and unload groceries. I notice that, oddly, the hood is smoking and something smells like fire. Rick pulls the car out the garage and we gather outside to see what's the big meow. As we are trying to get the hood up, and pull the water hose around...
A man from down the street (whom I know only vaguely) walks by, strolling his infant daughter. Before I can even greet him, he gets a panicked look, and begins running, half pushing, half-dragging the stroller. I remember that he has epilepsy and start yelling "Stop, Tim! We can help you! Stop!" He keeps running in a crazed fashion, tipping over the stroller and dragging it on it's side, and then upside down. A flurry of berserk activity, much hollering, and soon we have Rick running after the man, who has abandoned the stroller in the street, upside down, and run down to the street, where he is passed out. I run to the baby, all the while yelling for the Lear Brood to stay in the yard.
Whew.
Some serious action was going on. The seizure (of the psycho-motor variety, he said) resulted in Tim being totally out of it for 30 minutes, while I held his 4 month old, daughter, cleaned her scraped forehead (she is just fine, only scraped), and asked a neighbor to call 911. Our corner was a hotbed of activity: fire truck, ambulance, two police cars, multiple neighbors and all the kids wide-eyed as all get out.
The van, turns out, was the victim of an inattentive oil change mechanic. He left an oily rag under the hood two days earlier, which caught on fire, melted part of the under-carriage, and burned through a wire. We have to think of it as a necessary part of the day - because without that small fire, we would not have been out front to help that sweet baby and her peculiar father. (It's not the epilepsy that makes him peculiar, it's just him.)

Sunday: We've made it to the day of rest, in which we continue to recount and shake our head over the previous day's activity. But wait! What is that water seeping under yonder powder room door? And what is that wad of stank out yonder front door, at the clean-out pipe? Uh-oh. This can only mean that Roto-Rooter needs to pay a visit. Roots, roots everywhere, all in the outdoor sewer pipe. This will take some roto-rooting and root killer.

Monday: We've made it to the day of rest(part 2)! In which 3 Learlings head to school, and I make sense of the week ahead. But wait! Why is it 64 degrees upstairs, and there is cold air coming out of the vents. Oh no. Oh no no no. Please no.
But yes, the HVAC man says. Yes, yes, yes. Your furnace is 22 years old and has chosen to burn through some wires in the attic. Oh good grief. Wow, you look pretty calm, considering the news I just gave you, says Mr. HVAC. I smiled wearily.

Some things you just can't explain.

What an expensive week.