He kisses you and reminds you that the sitter is coming this afternoon. He will meet you at your favorite restaurant tonight for dessert after your parent seminar. You nod, but you're not really listening because your dark hearted two-year-olds NO WANT OATMEAL, they want waffles. Their need for waffles is so all consuming that the very sight of the bowls of oatmeal that you have already prepared causes them to have convulsions of displeasure on the kitchen floor. You consider having your own convulsion of displeasure, but you are too tired and you would have to bend over. You muddle through the morning to lunch. The weather is cold and wet and you are stuck in the basement playroom with miss crabapple and mr. crabbypants and baby crabalot.
At lunch, there is nastiness when you refuse a request for more crackers before consumption of at least one grape. Sippy cups fly. Much desired brownies are withheld and the two-year-olds go to naps sobbing. You feel grumpy and unappreciated because the only thing that cheers them is the mention that the beloved Kay will be there when they get up. The only thing that cheers you is remembering that you will not be there when they get up.
It's been a long time since you had an afternoon to run errands all alone. You spend nap time organizing your lists. Paper store for supplies to make invitations, grocery store, post office. Last, Costco, to get a sushi tray for the parent seminar and formula for the baby. You attempt to make yourself look human before Kay arrives and then you split like a woman who's been trapped in a basement with three crabby kids all morning. The paper store is quiet and pretty and you're feeling a little better.
You grab margarita mix at the grocery store and sit in the car putting together a package for your awesome friend. You've owed her this package forever. It contains the baby carrier that she lent you three years ago when you were moving home from Asia with a six-month-old all by yourself. That you've never returned because you are a disaster. Never mind that her baby is now two. Also, margarita mix because she can't get it where she lives and she rocks. You stuff it all into the box, rearranging and squishing until it fits. You enter the slowest post office in the United States (possibly the world), but you are child free so you don't care that it takes thirty minutes to mail the package. You get back to the car and reverse and notice the pretty card sitting on the passenger seat. The pretty card that was supposed to go in the package to your awesome friend. Grrrrr. (Sorry S - love you!)
Now, it's getting late. The parent seminar is at 6:00. You drive to Costco. You have two things you must get - sushi tray and formula. You shop. They have cute toddler shorts. You get more grapes because you like torturing your toddlers. You remember you need peanut butter. You have to hurry, it's already 5:30. At check out, you marvel at your inability to leave Costco without spending at least $150.00. Is it a universal rule of some sort - thou shalt not spend less than a small fortune on gargantuan quantities of peanut butter and granola bars. If some poor soul actually ran in and just picked up a couple of things for like $30, would red alarms sound while they fell through a trap door in the floor? Meanwhile, at the car you realize you have forgotten the formula. How is that possible? No fear, you have horse-feed-sized tubs of peanut butter. You will be well nourished when you have to nurse your baby all day the next day.
The parent seminar is on birth order and you don't want to go, but you promised to take the sushi tray. The speaker is sweet, you enjoy talking to the other parents, but the material was quite possibly last updated in 1945. It's boring. You are starving. You scarf sushi. There are chocolate frosting-filled cupcakes. The cupcakes are awesome and the talk is still boring. You eat three. Back at the car, tired (you've been up since 4:00) and a little sick (you are regretting that last cupcake), all you want to do is go home and send Kay home early and go to bed. That's when you remember that you are supposed to meet your husband to celebrate your ninth wedding anniversary. By eating dessert together. Ugh. Luckily, your husband is always up for pizza and beer, but still, where exactly have you misplaced your brain? Costco perhaps? Peanut butter aisle?
Bed. Thank HP. It's over. The day ends without serious incident. With closed eyes, you strive for perspective. Terrible things are happening in China and Myanmar. Cupcake stomach aches and finding storage for two more huge jars of Jiffy (oh, yes, we already had two jars in the cupboard) and the great waffle v. oatmeal debacle are trifles. In fact, it reflects scary abundance to have such problems. You will try to remember this tomorrow, along with your brain.
The scene today....all sweetness and light. Like their black hearts don't exist. I know better.
Now, it's getting late. The parent seminar is at 6:00. You drive to Costco. You have two things you must get - sushi tray and formula. You shop. They have cute toddler shorts. You get more grapes because you like torturing your toddlers. You remember you need peanut butter. You have to hurry, it's already 5:30. At check out, you marvel at your inability to leave Costco without spending at least $150.00. Is it a universal rule of some sort - thou shalt not spend less than a small fortune on gargantuan quantities of peanut butter and granola bars. If some poor soul actually ran in and just picked up a couple of things for like $30, would red alarms sound while they fell through a trap door in the floor? Meanwhile, at the car you realize you have forgotten the formula. How is that possible? No fear, you have horse-feed-sized tubs of peanut butter. You will be well nourished when you have to nurse your baby all day the next day.
The parent seminar is on birth order and you don't want to go, but you promised to take the sushi tray. The speaker is sweet, you enjoy talking to the other parents, but the material was quite possibly last updated in 1945. It's boring. You are starving. You scarf sushi. There are chocolate frosting-filled cupcakes. The cupcakes are awesome and the talk is still boring. You eat three. Back at the car, tired (you've been up since 4:00) and a little sick (you are regretting that last cupcake), all you want to do is go home and send Kay home early and go to bed. That's when you remember that you are supposed to meet your husband to celebrate your ninth wedding anniversary. By eating dessert together. Ugh. Luckily, your husband is always up for pizza and beer, but still, where exactly have you misplaced your brain? Costco perhaps? Peanut butter aisle?
Bed. Thank HP. It's over. The day ends without serious incident. With closed eyes, you strive for perspective. Terrible things are happening in China and Myanmar. Cupcake stomach aches and finding storage for two more huge jars of Jiffy (oh, yes, we already had two jars in the cupboard) and the great waffle v. oatmeal debacle are trifles. In fact, it reflects scary abundance to have such problems. You will try to remember this tomorrow, along with your brain.
The scene today....all sweetness and light. Like their black hearts don't exist. I know better.
They had waffles. And brownies. (No cupcakes for me.)
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