Dysfunctional Family Mother's Day

Yesterday morning, in true "my life" fashion, I got a call from my sister informing me that the Mother's Day celebration we were to share at her home in Allentown would not take place as scheduled because my nephew had been vomiting the entire day and night before and was running a fever. It seems the decision was made that the festivities would be held here, at my new apartment. The guest list included Alan and I, the kids, my parents, my brother, grandmother and Alan's parents. Have I made mention of the fact that Alan and I find it less than roomy here with just us and the kids? Anyway...a quick call to my friend and neighbor, Lisa, supplied us with a folding table and folding chairs to accomodate our crowd. A creative rearranging of the furniture provided us with the space to configure said table and chairs in a way that didn't make the apartment feel like the Warsaw ghetto.
I made a quick trip to Party City to pick up festive paper goods and another to ShopRite to pick up frozen trays of Stuffed Shells and Eggplant Parmigiana and garlic bread, along with a Red Velvet Cake and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Cake. I felt like a living combination of Sandra Lee, Rachael Ray and Martha Stewart. I even left time for a trip to Lowe's to investigate countertop materials and pricing. I was feeling good when I got home and Alan had actually figured out how to turn the oven on and had also done a bang up job of stashing our clutter to make the apartment presentable for guests. I felt a synergy and felt no need or desire for a sedative. We were in a groove.
The phone rang, it was my brother, he had arrived. He brought me a single red rose and some chatchkies for the kids. Still groovin'.
My dad calls, "I'm at the front gate, now how do I get to you?" I hear in the background the security guard telling him something that sounds wrong. I try telling him how to get to me, he gets agitated (as he often does). The conversation ends with him yelling that if he does what I say, he'll drive into a wall and me yelling back, "I'M COMING DOWN TO GET YOU!!"
Then, I get downstairs and my mom and dad proceed to argue over a bunch of balloons that are in the car. My mother says to me, after I say, "I'll get them", "DON'T YELL AT ME!" I didn't yell. I tell her that. I also advise that she not start anything, which is something she is famous for doing. We get my 81 yr old grandmother out of the car and go upstairs. The fun is about to really start.
My mother unpacks a bag full of maracas, recorders (remember those from music class in elementary school?) and clown gear. She intends to put on a circus in my 3 square foot apartment living room to entertain the children. I go to the cabinet and take the sedative. Only 1/2 a mg. I'm trying to stay lucid and enjoy the day.
Finally, with the vent from the stove whirring, the rattling of the maracas and the reedy tooting of the recorders I snap. "Can we please put the instruments away? My nerves are shot and I can't take the noise." My children, aged 2 and 6 stop immediately. My mother, age 59 1/2 does not. I have to ask again, this time less politely. She complies.
We eat dinner. We eat dessert. Everyone relaxes and then we caravan over to the construction site. I am about to unveil to my family the biggest project I have ever undertaken, I am about to reveal in detail, on a tour of the house, what our dream home is shaping into. My mother says, "I'll be outside blowing bubbles with Eliana."
"But mom," I say, "I want you to see the house."
"I'll see it later, I want to blow bubbles now."
I think I just said it all. What can you add to that?