Calgon, You Know The Drill
Jooge has been known to squeal, "Don't be such a grouch!" She usually pulls it out to interrupt a heated discussion. I can't believe she hasn't yet thrown it my way today. I am living breathing Grouch times nine. All I wanna do is go back to bed.
I keep wondering if I get this way when I'm either about to ovulate or have just done so already. It's one of those days where everything seems to be conspiring against me, from straps on shoes, to the little people in my charge. In one corner is Julia (who still will not deposit dung in the toilet in my midst) saying the words, "Mommy, I want a diaper!" In the other corner is a fussy strawberry-stained, nap-ready toddler who just smacked her head on the floor because she tripped on something and I can't help her because I'm cleaning her sister's poopy diaper. And cooking my Lean Cuisine panini? Since when should microwave directions overwhelm? Less is more people. Just tell me to PUT IN MICROWAVE on GRILL TRAY and cook.
As far as the scene before me, which I usually like to clean up before the next thing, it has won. I am done. I don't want to clean up the strawberries that Avery has plopped on the floor, a map of madness including strewn corn kernels and a puddle of milk. The cream wafers I made last night (tasty little buttery swedish cookies) are perpetually popped into my mouth. No, they do not help this frame of mind. I don't really want them, I'm just indulging an impulse.
Writing feels better. I will snap out of it. But I'm sure while I'm snapping out of it, I will have a squirmy preschooler on my lap and I'll be stubbing my toe and I will really just want to escape to the lands of Calgon's bubbly heaven. It's one of those days. And I hate those days. All I can do is sit and eat my microwaved "panini" counting down the seconds until N.A.P.
I keep wondering if I get this way when I'm either about to ovulate or have just done so already. It's one of those days where everything seems to be conspiring against me, from straps on shoes, to the little people in my charge. In one corner is Julia (who still will not deposit dung in the toilet in my midst) saying the words, "Mommy, I want a diaper!" In the other corner is a fussy strawberry-stained, nap-ready toddler who just smacked her head on the floor because she tripped on something and I can't help her because I'm cleaning her sister's poopy diaper. And cooking my Lean Cuisine panini? Since when should microwave directions overwhelm? Less is more people. Just tell me to PUT IN MICROWAVE on GRILL TRAY and cook.
As far as the scene before me, which I usually like to clean up before the next thing, it has won. I am done. I don't want to clean up the strawberries that Avery has plopped on the floor, a map of madness including strewn corn kernels and a puddle of milk. The cream wafers I made last night (tasty little buttery swedish cookies) are perpetually popped into my mouth. No, they do not help this frame of mind. I don't really want them, I'm just indulging an impulse.
Writing feels better. I will snap out of it. But I'm sure while I'm snapping out of it, I will have a squirmy preschooler on my lap and I'll be stubbing my toe and I will really just want to escape to the lands of Calgon's bubbly heaven. It's one of those days. And I hate those days. All I can do is sit and eat my microwaved "panini" counting down the seconds until N.A.P.
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