Today was one of those days that stretch endlessly, kind of like watching the Superbowl Half-Time Show in slow motion.
Because I’m a snarky parent, I’ll share the low-lights.
6:00 a.m. Vivian wakes me up because she’s had a bad dream.
6:15 a.m. Vivian wakes me up again because she can’t stop thinking about the nightmare.
6:35 a.m. Vivian wakes me up yet again because she can’t sleep. Neither can I. She crawls into my bed.
6:55 a.m. Vivian starts whinging about how hungry she is. She refuses to go get a piece of fruit. I trudge downstairs and make breakfast.
7:45 a.m. I tweet this:
6yo DD has cried twice this morning. Now I’m getting attitude. So, we’re going to cuddle. It’s easier than selling her.
8:30 a.m. William finally abandons Sunday-morning cartoons, takes one bite of his 90-minute-old toast, and announces he hates peanut butter (which he’s eaten every morning for the last five years).
9:00 a.m. I promise to make a recipe out of a kids’ cookbook Vivian and William borrowed from our public library a month ago. I get the ingredients ready, do everything, and let the kids throw sprinkles and other toppings on top. Magically, they’ve made dessert. It’s not unlike how my husband will flip meat once on the barbecue and get credit for cooking a great meal. But I digress.
I deposit the goopy-berry-stick-things into the freezer.
Insert twelve more mini crises.
1:00 p.m. I tweet this:
My kids are driving me batty. Can’t wait for the Parenting Hand-Off when DH gets home in 3 hours.
2:00 p.m. I tweet this:
I’m making a marinade that calls for ketchup. I open the bottle, drop it, try to catch it, fumble. Kitchen=bloodbath.
Insert thirteen more mini crises.
4:00 p.m. My husband arrives home. He makes a sarcastic comment about my “tough day” before realizing what mood I’m in. I give him The Death Stare.
4:30 p.m. I escape and buy my Ironic Mom Goes To Hollywood Bad-Girl-Bag.
6:00 p.m. I return home, make dinner, and we eat. I go to the freezer to take out the strawberries-on-a-stick. We nearly break our teeth on them. Vivian and William hold them up to the light, trying to melt them.
7:45 p.m. I tweet this:
6yo just told his twin sister: “Your teeth look like they’re dark gray with cavities.” She’s now weeping.
8:00 p.m. I tuck in the kids and warn them to stay in bed. “Mommy needs a break,” I say. (It sounded vaguely more responsible than “Mommy needs a drink”).
8:05 p.m. With the absence of alcohol, I start writing, realizing that going to work is usually way easier than parenting.