I was running around like a ding-dong trying to get the basement cleaned, a sewing project started, dinner prepped, and a shower all during the course of Mac’s nap.
In my frenzy, I managed to squirt soap all over myself and the utility sink and the floor.
All that self-imposed stifling of my notorious potty mouth for the kid’s sake, seems to be catching on because despite the mess and despite the fact I was alone, I didn’t curse. Well not out loud at least. . .
And that got me to thinking about what I must look like to my 15-month old? If he had the verbal skills, what would he tell people about me and how we spend our time together?
Here’s what I think he might say about our morning. . .
Well, it’s Friday so Mommy and I slept in until about 8:30. Mommy would have slept longer but I was hungry so I cried really loudly to make sure she heard me through the fog of her Thursday night wine-time.
What’s she call that “me time”?
She relatively promptly stumbled into my nursery with a bottle of Visine in one hand and a toothbrush in the other. It was touch and go there for a minute but she managed to get the Visine in her eyes and the toothbrush in her mouth.
The diaper change was uneventful. Then, presumably because she was feeling lazy, she tried to get me to cuddle with her for a few minutes. I’m not sure what she doesn’t get? I’m too old for cuddling. To drive the point home, I attempt to throw myself off the bed head-first three times.
That got her moving.
We made the bed and headed downstairs. She plopped me in “my little seat” (as she refers to it) and started digging around in the freezer.
Every stupid Friday this idiot tries to give me ice cream for breakfast. She thinks it’s a fun treat. I hate ice cream. I glare at her while pounding a spatula on my high chair tray while she eats the ice cream and makes me my damned eggs and bacon.
Finally, the woman gets breakfast on the table. I watch her carefully to make sure she’s not sneaking bites of my egg. Mommy nibbles – a lot.
To make sure she doesn’t get any fatter, I’m sure to throw all the bites I don’t want on the floor. Sometimes this works, unless it’s Friday morning. . .then if she’s hungry enough she’ll eat them off the floor since she just scrubbed it Thursday afternoon. It’s revolting.
Then she drags me to that hell hole of a basement she’s been promising to organize since the Bush Administration. She puts me in my pack n play so she can “get ready.” I’m not sure what “getting ready” really means because she emerges from the bathroom 5 minutes later still looking like hell.
She runs upstairs to do more “getting ready” and I amuse myself by pitching every boring toy out of the pack n play. I try really hard to hurl each object so it lands under another piece of furniture or in the cats’ water dish.
What’s taking so long? It’s dark and boring in this basement. I hear her crashing back down the stairs. We come back up and we practice turning on and off the light at the top of the stairs. I very much enjoy this game. I’m sure the fact that she only tolerates 3 flips of the switch won’t cause me to have some sort of OCD behavior in my later years.
That’s when I notice she has her sneakers on and the stroller is by the front door.
Great. Another stupid bird walk.
When we get outside, the neighbors are walking by. I do my best to look adorable while simultaneously giving Mommy the stink eye. Bird walks get old after a while. There had better be bubbles.
Mom and I feed a bunch of stale Cheerios to the ducks at the park. She keeps naming all the birds. Jesus, I know what a mallard is ok? We see them every stinking day. And that Muscovy duck? I’m over it. He’s a very unattractive bird.
By the time we get to the Pagoda, Mommy is sweating profusely, smells faintly of stale Sauvignon blanc, and mumbling that the birding is bad.
I’m just hoping she has to tinkle soon so we can go home. Mommy’s bladder seems more uncontrollable than my own and most days she sprints into the back yard, yanks me out of the stroller and makes a beeline for the loo.
I try to wait patiently for her while she walks the stroller around to the front of the house. I’m most patient when the pack n play gets bumped close enough to the shelves so that I can play with the photo frames and other non-kid approved items that reside there.
I hear Mom crashing back down the stairs. She’s mumbling some gibberish about playing, reading, snack and nap. I demand we play with the light switch again. Mommy seems to be huffing and puffing and looks like she could use some water. I’m afraid she’s going to pass out and hit her head so I allow her to put me on the floor while she gets herself together.
Then she starts rattling off a bunch of snack options. I’m not really feeling it. I’d rather just have her help me climb on and off the living room chair for the next 50 minutes. I really like it when I pull so hard on her fingers they make a popping sound. It cracks me up.
I bring her a stack of books taller than I am and demand she “Rea, rea, rea. . .” One would think the message is obvious but I’m coming to realize subtlety doesn’t always get your needs met in this joint.
She agrees. She does try. Just to keep her on her toes, I allow her to read only the first two pages of every book before I slam it shut and offer her another one. And just as she starts to get all dramatic with Goodnight Moon, I decide to incessantly press the button on my potty training book. It sounds like the toilet flushing and it pleases me greatly.
Mommy’s all caught up with the reading but I’m hungry. Since I can say “food” but only choose to do so when I look at a picture of fruit in my farm book, I bite her toe. It seems to garner a more urgent response.
Before I know it, I’m back in my little seat, fork in hand, being offered last night’s leftovers. Mommy ain’t no Grandma in the kitchen. Again, I throw half my food on the floor. This time, while Mom’s down there cleaning everything up, I decide it would be great fun to yank on her hair – over and over and over again. Silly woman. It takes her at least 4 times (that’s how far I can count), to figure out she should just slide my high chair away from the mess. What an idiot!
Mommy looks kinda’ scary nervous breakdown or cardiac arrest edgy. So I agree to play with my creepy talking dump truck, Chuck in my crib until I fall asleep.
The house seems quiet. I’m not tryin’ to sound all judgey but I think Mommy might have sat down and read three or four pages in a magazine while I fell asleep. . .
That’s pretty much my Friday morning. . . Oh and how comes when I got awake from my nap she spent the rest of the afternoon twitching and repeating in a desperate tone, “Daddy will be home soon”?
And there you have it folks. See why I’m not thrilled about his ever-expanding vocabulary?
A very safe and happy Labor Day Weekend to you all! XO