This is why i’m a lunatic. This, dear husband, is a short list of all the reasons after bedtime I am too checked out to even consider the horizontal mambo or the bedtime tango.
The highs and lows of just one day:
Woke up, got the 3rd grader up. 4 year old is on the iPad in my bed while daddy, aka Sleeping Beauty, snores.
Had a marvelous one on one breakfast with son. We laugh, we joke, we even both get to eat!
Then hurried herding: brush/bands/jacket/backpack/now now now, hurry!
Manage to drop off just before the bell rings. Win!
Get home. Incomprehensible that waffles and/or Nutella are not on the morning menu for Her Highness the Preschooler. We find a nearly acceptable alternative, but this insubordination will not be forgotten.
Laundry is finally grudgingly hauled to the room of procrastination. Clothes are loaded and machine is on.
HH (Her Highness) refuses to use the bathroom alone because washer is making noise. She demands our fearless dog Barney accompany her because insubordinate mom refuses to entertain such foolishness.
10 minutes later Quick Pee McGee is still in the bathroom. She refuses to come out because she is afraid the soulless, barely audible, only working body in the house will devour her whole.
She eventually makes it back to the living room in one anxious paranoid piece.
Two spiders were seen this week having the gall to traipse across our ceiling in broad daylight. One a mega sized daddy long legs, the other a dead speck of legs smooshed near the shoes. Because of these anarchist arachnids, daughter refuses to play in/around/beside the play room. Shoes are smashed, flung, cried over, inspected, hit on the floor before being put (always) on the wrong foot first.
We make cookies. I am asked no less than 2000 times “Can I lick the spoon now?”
She notices a familiar drawing insufficiently covered or hidden in recycling bag. All hell breaks loose.
Andre the Giant size tears are pouring out of her eyeballs and she wails, “Why you didn’t like my pictures?!?” “You HATE my pictures?!?”
My heart falls onto the unmopped floor and I lie. “They must have fallen in the RECYCLING bin, (annunciating as if the fact they were not in the trash is any less of a betrayal) I’m SOOOOO glad you found them! That was lucky!”
The cookies patch some of the damage (on both sides)
I now completely understand how hoarders begin their stacks. Kids’ drawings.
Pick up Super Son who has finally managed to remember to put in his bands after lunch, AND without using a mirror, and who also aced his spelling test.
Homework gets done with no yelling. Dinner is eaten with no drama.
Bedtime makes me want to claw my eyeballs out. Son has seemingly been entombed in cement and cannot quite lift a toothbrush. Daughter has imagined her room a den of infinite angry face-sucking, toe-munching tarantulas on a mission for her brain and any place BUT her bedroom is safe despite the million-stuffy army she has surrounded herself with.
Once all the precious angels have settled into their beds I turn my brain off, turn the TV on, and hit the recliner button. No brain necessary. And please, for the love of God, do not ask me any questions. Especially if they begin with “Honey, where is the…..” because i may just answer with my brain exploding all over this couch.
I know for some this may seem trivial and demeaning to have so little undo me so much. To you I say kudos. You obviously are far more intelligent & superior, and im ok with that. Me and my margarita are good over here on the inferior side of the sofa.