9:45 a.m.: Realize that I am still in bed…at a quarter to ten. Rock ON! The husband has let me sleep in, the kids are happily not eating breakfast, and I feel awesome. This is going to be one sweet day.
9:47 a.m.: I tell my 2 year old daughter I love her.
“No mommy. I love Daddy. I hate you.”
Thanks pumpkin.
10:20 a.m.: Husband is mowing the jungle lawn, without being nagged asked. Kids are outside playing, I’m sipping coffee, checking my e-mail. Perhaps there’s still potential for a suck-free day?
10:26 a.m.: Doorbell rings. I’m in the washroom, taking care of business. Doorbell rings repeatedly. Business will have to wait. Daughter is standing, forlorn, at the back door.
“Where’s your shoes?”
Shrug.
“Where’s your dad?”
Shrug.
Apparently, husband & I both thought the other had the kids. We should probably talk more often. Because barefooted, wandering 2 year olds will get you on the news, dammit.
12:00 p.m.: Daughter anticipates the nap that is to come in an hour. Starts ritual chant of “No nap.” She pinpoints the moment I’ve managed to block her out, and adjusts volume accordingly. Can’t decide whether I’m annoyed or awed. Turns out, it’s both.
1:30 p.m.: With daughter asleep, son can’t see why I wouldn’t want to play cars. And by “play”, he means “watch him play till my eyes glaze over and I’m left trying to remember the Prime Ministers of Canada, in chronological order, to avoid falling asleep.” Son tells me I’m not very good at this game, and maybe I should just go clean something.
1:45 p.m.: The neighbor from the sketchy house on the corner knocks on my door. He’s looking for odd jobs. He’s carrying a squeegee. It looks suspiciously like the one from the Shell down the block. I’m guessing that if I’d wanted my windows done, I would have been supplying my own bucket, water and soap. I pointedly tell him I don’t keep any cash in the house. He looks a little too stoned to catch my drift. He’s got his 5 year old son with him, watching. Fuck.
3:20 p.m.: It is hotter than a crotch outside today. The kids aren’t buying that sitting perfectly still is the only way to combat the heat. I decide drastic measures are called for. I’ve never taken both kids swimming by myself. I can barely handle one of the little buggers when they’re wet and slippery. But hey, this day’s got nowhere to go but up.
4:00 – 5:00 p.m.: This may be the most perfect hour we’ve ever spent together. We have the entire teach pool at the Y to ourselves. The kids not only forget to fight, they invent games that incorporate helping each other and hugging.
5:00 p.m.: Despite my repeated warnings to use “walking feet” (When did I become a douchey kindergarten teacher? When?) both kids tear through the locker room. And wipe out on the wet cement floor.
5:12 p.m.: Return to the parking garage. As we get near our car, I see a minivan, unoccupied, with the side door wide open. Oh man, I think, I’ve had days like that. Poor woman. Wow, she’s going to feel so silly when she gets back to her car. Hey, small world, she has the same DVD player we do in the back of our van. And the same Spongebob DVD on the backseat. Sitting beside the same car seat…
Jesus tap dancing Christ.
8:30 p.m.: It’s pretty much over. We’ve stumbled through supper, a trip to the park that ended with a shituation, and (suddenly very necessary) baths. Then daughter starts crying in a way that is decidedly abnormal. I get her out of her crib in time to have a front row seat for the Technicolor Yawn. Son runs up and down the hallway, his gag reflex tripping, but damned if he just can’t stop staring at the carnage. Round after round of barf flies out of her little body. In between rounds, she’s trying to tell me how scared she is of The Cat in The Hat. She can’t hear my reassurances over the puking.
8:35 p.m.: Husband whisks the princess away. I send son back to bed. Strip off barf-soaked clothes, get down on hands and knees to clean up the mess. But son hasn’t gone back to bed after all.
“Uh, mom, I can see your butt.”
Oh son, in this position, thank your lucky stars that all you can identify is my butt.
8:40 p.m.: If you count the one at the pool (and I do), take my 3rd shower of the day. Hair and skin are declaring a drought. Every towel in the bathroom is soggy from earlier baths. And I step in evidence that the “shituation” that brought us home from the park wasn’t contained to the diaper, after all.
Oh Saturday, I have such high hopes for you. You better not disappoint like that bitch Friday.
Praying to Darwin 