And then there are the days where it seems like just too much work to get the kids dressed- so you don’t- and then you spend the rest of the day feeling guilty because there’s this societal ideal that people should be dressed and coordinated at all times, even if they’re not going outside (except for that one, “quick” errand), and there you go. You’ve started the day off on the Guilty Foot.
It progresses to the point where you actually find yourself typing a blog post while propping your laptop on a high bookshelf because you cannot trust your two daughters to keep liquids out of the room and curtain folds if you sit anywhere else in the house. Although God knows where they’re getting the liquid; the bathrooms all have doorknob covers and the fridge- to the best of your knowledge- is closed. But regardless. Liquid and bouncy balls (maybe they’re attempting to create a snow globe?) continue to be found in the curtain hems.
But back to the laptop/shelf-typing: you find that balancing a computer on a skinny shelf sliiightly above your natural arm height might not be a bad way to work. After all, you’re ready at a moment’s notice to stop any curtain-dousing which may occur, plus you’ve got the added bonus of being able to wear/bounce the 7 week-old- which, you loudly remind yourself, beats the heck out of any boring ol’ nursing sessions in the quietude of a nursery. With a book. And a soft lullaby. (You know, the stuff you told yourself you’d do once you had kids/the stuff you did for like, a week with your firstborn?) You tell yourself this again, even louder. You bust it out a third time, just in case there’s any doubt that you’ve fully become Rain Man.
So it’s around this time- the time you’ve almost fallen into a workable groove- that the baby spews an impressive amount directly into your cleavage. And you get upset. Because this means that- no, for real- you’re gonna hafta change your clothes. And this brings on another bout of sadness, because it’s around now you realize that, even if they WEREN’T sweats deemed too ripped to wear two years ago, they most certainly should’ve been swapped out since Monday night.
I’m laughing because you’re a terrible mother.
But it’s when you begin to softly weep at the thought of dishes and laundry and mismatched puzzle pieces who feel sad about being in the wrong boxes that you think maaaybe- JUST MAAAYBE- you’re a teenser bit overtired.
Because all of these events and subsequent tantrums (on your part, mind you), have occurred by 8:45am.
And you know that these things happen. And bad days come and go, and they’re usually followed by very good days (although you’re not holding your breath- even though you probably should, because someone is rather stinky).
So you give up. And throw a blanket over your head while the kids watch a movie and shove puzzle pieces in the wrong boxes (OH MY GOD, THOSE BOXES ARE SO COMPLETELY INCORRECT), and- yeah, you know what?- stay in PullUp diapers a tad longer than bummily wise.
And the kids are totally fine. Or maybe they’re not. Because you totally stole a four minute catnap while the blanket was over your head and you probably missed some humongously terrible four minute-long catastrophe, but LORDY, did that catnap feel like a week at the spa.
So now you’ve got the energy to be a little better.
It should at least get you ’til lunchtime.
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