…And then there are the days when you realize that you are actually too tired for coffee. Like, too tired to make yourself another cup, too tired to consume it, and too tired to acknowledge the caffeine (which, let’s be honest, would be like putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun).
So you have another cup of coffee. And you sit on the floor while drinking it because- again- you’re on borrowed energy, here.
And you look at your kitchen from the floor and think to yourself- Wow, but this place is filthy! Like, how many cheddar goldfish have to die in protest before someone wipes a damp cloth along the baseboards?
You look at the clock and realize that, by 9am, you’ve already had A Day. And there’s a very real possibility that the same child has had two cups of milk while her sibling went without. This causes you to wonder whose overnight diaper you changed. (You know you did two of them…but were they equally distributed? Seeing as the eldest kid is currently at her preschool, you decide to chalk that one up to Moving On With Our Day.)
Then you realize that the only three coherent thoughts you’ve had about your household in the past 48 hours have been GRIMY and NEGLIGENT and HAUNTED. And then you get super depressed because you remember how not that many people commented on the previous day’s post about your haunted nativity set- and specifically one of the Three Kings, the one who likes to spin and jig around the baby Jesus’ cradle.
GOOD LORD, you say to yourself, IS MY HOUSE SO PUBLICLY HAUNTED THAT A SPINNING KING NO LONGER SEEMS NEWS-WORTHY?
This worries you.
You remind yourself that you are lucky to have a [haunted/crumby] house and even luckier to spend your days blogging about things like exploding washing machines and how social media makes you angry.
And you have a degree, you tell yourself. While sitting on the floor, drinking coffee out of a mug with bears on it. A degree printed on a frisbee.
Oh, this is not helping.
But then you remember that it’s December 6th. The Feast Of Saint Nicholas. (And your half-birthday.) And you remember how you’re married to a good little Catholic. So obviously there are treats waiting for you in your boot, and the boots of your kiddos. Chocolates and advent calendars for the gals, and your favorite eye cream for you. (Which, admittedly, to the uninitiated would seem like a pointed criticism of your beauty routine but, given how you’ve been weeping in his face about your under-eye circles, seems like a timely and thoughtful present. From Saint Nick.)
So you cheer up. And wipe away the damn goldfish crumbs.
At least you look perky while doing it.
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