Last week, Finish the Sentence Friday’s theme was essentially: A Day in The Life. I chose to write about my job for several reasons: one, I had just launched my new website, Music With Miss Stephanie, and I am all about cross-promotion, and two, I was lazy. Choosing that post was a nice excuse to recycle something I had already written. Sorry.
As my day on Friday unfolded, however, I realized that I was kind of sad about not writing a post detailing the events of my actual day. Blame my friends Kate, Pam, Jean, and Jessica for writing such perfect synopses about their days with their kids.
So, in my usual two hours late for the party fashion, (I’m speaking metaphorically. I would never be late to someone’s actual party. I am a cheerleader for punctuality. Being late sucks. And it’s rude. Sorry to offend any tardy party people.) I am going to write my Day in the Life post today.
Sue me. Forgive me.
2:25 am: I wake up briefly as I realize that I have been clutching one of my ear plugs in my fist for an unknown period of time, and I have somehow put it into my mouth. Perhaps I am dreaming about food. My subconscious higher-self takes immediate notice and miraculously helps my sleeping hand to remove said earplug from my mouth within a few seconds.
6:32 am: I can hear my toddler hollering, “Mommy!” from her crib and mercifully note that my husband has gotten out of bed to retrieve her.
6:42 am: My toddler is now grabbing my nipple along with a handful of my tank top in order to provide leverage for herself, ungracefully writhing and still in her sleep sack.
6:55 am: My toddler grabs a handful of boob for the second time. Apparently Mommy needs to get dressed.
7:10 am: My house looks like the “After” picture from a natural disaster. The floor is strewn with a strange combination of Polly Pockets, antique necklaces (from Great-Grandma for playing dress-up), and an egg poacher, along with the individual egg poaching cups.
7:45 am: I am trying to put on my makeup without my toddler seeing what I am doing, in order to avoid her climbing into my lap while I struggle with my mascara. She decides to start rifling through my nightstand instead, and I am relieved.
7:48 am: I hear a familiar low thrumming. Oh, hell no. I brace myself and turn around, only to discover that my toddler is playing with the battery-powered hand-held massager. Phew. That was a close one.
8:45 am: Toddler and I drop off big sis, and head to Mommy’s place of employment.
9:15 am: The next two and a half hours are spent dealing with other people’s children, which is somehow much easier than dealing with my own.
11:45 am: I am changing my daughter’s diaper, which is sagging down to her knees, resembling a buxom octogenarian’s décolletage. When I set her down and turn around to retrieve our supplies, she has dipped one of my maracas into the toilet.
12:30 pm: On our way out of the building, we cross paths with a mom and her two young boys. Here I an excerpt of dialogue.
- My 18 month old (to the youngest boy): “Balls! Tee!” (She is showing him her three golf balls. Oh, I forgot to include the bit where she dropped her golf balls in the parking lot on our way into the building, as of course she insisted on carrying all three, and I loudly said, “Crap!” and some guy ran after them. I digress.)
- 20 month old boy (to my daughter): “Cars!”
- His mom: “ ?” (appearing puzzled)
- Me: (explaining) “She’s showing him her golf balls and he’s showing her his car.”
- His mom: (Walking out the door) “Don’t pick those flowers!”
- Me: “Don’t touch that ashtray!”
- Me: “It sure takes a long time to get anywhere at this pace!”
- His mom: Mumbles unintelligibly. Is apparently not interested in bonding over our mutual toddlers.
12:45 pm: TGIN! (Thank God it’s Naptime!)
2:30 pm: The Party is Over.
2:45 pm: We read Pooh’s Honeybees four times. My daughter repeats the word, “Yeah” after every sentence. “Pooh wants some honey.” Yeah.” The honeybees know where to find honey!” Yeah.
OK, I quit. That’s all I can handle. To summarize the rest of our day, we pick up the big kid, take her to dance, three of us eat dinner and one of us throws food all over the floor, rush through bath and bedtime, and collapse on the couch to eat sweets that we don’t allow our children to have. I write this post on Facebook.
Now go read those four posts I linked to- they are way better than this one.
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