Husband’s been out town for a week now and the kids and I are starting to fray at the edges.
Son wakes up and starts whining immediately, I whine back, and Daughter’s constipated on her sixth day of potty training (serious whining). My morning routine’s deteriorating within the first fifteen minutes vs the usual breakdown as we try to leave the house.
Son: It’s over! (That would be the second Blues Clues they’re on at 7 am)
Mommy: Okay, let’s all go upstairs and get dressed.
Daughter discovers a relic ride-on car in the back of Son’s extremely off limits pack rack closet.
Stop! It’s my car!
No it’s mine.
Scream, hit, scratch.
Stop it! The car is having a time out. Now go get dressed and brush your teeth. (Inaction) You can put a sticker on your chart…
Fifteen more minutes of bartering, begging, screaming, a few scratches and hits, serious tears and trauma.
I attempt to blow dry my hair (what am I thinking???).
I have to go potty! Put hairdryer down, take Daughter to princess potty.
Mommy! Help me with my clothes! Put hairdryer down. Help Son get dressed.
Put kids in front of another show to finish blow dry.
Scream to myself: I quit! That’s it. This is too hard. I don’t want to do it anymore.
Once again, no one is around to accept my resignation or cover for me.
Maybe I can get a full-time job again and work from 7 am to 7 pm like Husband. They’ll still like me when I come home, won’t they? Oh, but they both had a major breakdown yesterday when I picked them up at 5 after “long day” at school to do my part-time job. Nope, that’s not it.
Maybe I can get more help. Like a live in au pair who will be here at the crack of dawn and late in the day to help put them to bed. I’d give up my home office for that. We can swap my desk for a bed in there.
Finish blowdrying hair and run downstairs to break up another brawl.
Coats on now! We have to go. We’re already late for school!
Wait, let’s go potty first.
Down to the mudroom, coats on, boots on, mittens, gloves. Snow pants in backpack. Extra shoes in backpack.
Buckle Daughter in car seat. Fasten seat belt for Son in booster.
I’ll be right back!
Run inside. Run upstairs to pee myself. Run downstairs. Put on coat and boots. Get into car.
Son says, You look pretty, Mom.
Huh? Where did that come from? Who cares! I’ll take it. And I’ll stay.