Crying over Spilled Milk

You know the saying, "No sense in crying..." And there's some legitimate truth in that. However, then there are those Mondays. You know, the ones that start at 1AM with the first instance of Roland wetting the bed, and he's sleep walked, or whatever, to the bathroom and is screaming for you. Yeah, one of those. And you get him into clean clothes, change the sheets, put the dirty stuff in the wash, keep him calm, keep Aria asleep and then try and return to sleep yourself...only to be wakened by him, again, for the same reason, three hours later. Before you know it, it's 5:56 AM and everyone is up. Now this could be any morning, as this is quite typical, but you notice the freezer light has gone out when you're pulling out the waffles...and it makes you pause and wonder, "Hm...well, it's Monday."

Monday mornings are Monday mornings. You do your best the night before to prepare for everything, but it generally still fights against you. And they, it, the universe will fight against you. But. You. Must. Continue. Reminding yourself that there are millions upon millions who are overcoming so much more. And about the time you are staring off into traffic after dropping the kids off...day dreaming about nothing because you have no brain, one of your best friend pulls up and wakes you out of your daze to let you know your rear break light is out. Great.

Now you're headed to work, attempting the four merges and 6 lane changes in two miles to catch your exit and three drivers are determined to keep you headed to Kentucky and you wonder, "Maybe they know something I don't? Should I just keep driving?" And yippee, you caught the shuttle just in the nick of time. The non-stop-marathon of every-second-counts has hopefully guaranteed you'll be on time to your desk for your 9AM meeting. Wow. It only took you 3 hours to get to this point. Pat yourself on the back.

Commence work. Every cell in your body wants to be anywhere but your office today. And your computer shares in the sentiment. Each attempt to do something right seems to have the alternate response and you are-so-over-it you're just accepting the 10 minutes to upload a job to the que. Whatever. Fantastic. Now wrap the day, making notes of what to complete that night when you get home, and start the second half of the marathon home. Starting with, running down the shuttle in your favorite blue suede wedges. Hey, count that as exercise!

Here's where every day is good: pulling in and picking up the kids. Peeking in on them through the viewing window and watching them enjoy toys, friends, learning stations. The hugs, smiles, show-n-tell. How Aria does an outta-my-way-webble-wobble-sprint to get into your arms. Watching them walk down the hallway together. Reading their sheets, hearing about their days. Buckled up and enjoying their CDs and a snack, all is well. Off to Auto-zone! It's a lovely night to kill a half-hour in the cold dark with a very kind attendant who can't for the life of him figure out why he can't make your break light work. At. All. And after checking every fuse, replacing every bulb, some twice, and entertaining two kids relatively locked in the back seat, you surrender and just head home. I pity the cop that catches me this week.

Now, for the zoo. Barking dogs, mail, bags and bags from the car, two kids, Aria running away from you in the dark. Two large cabinets at the garage door waiting to be hauled in. Go potty, wash hands, put up coats, make dinner, feed dogs, put up clean dishes, empty lunches, feed kids, wash more dishes, there's probably more, I just can't remember it...and in the midst of this Roland spills a small - but somehow all encompassing two inches of milk. All over him, the wall, the table, the floor, the chair. Wow. You don't cry. You don't scream. You do however, suck in enough air that even the dogs scatter. And by some strange chance that huge breath gives you a moment to remember, "It's just milk." and you don't lose it. And while you are sequestering Roland to the bathroom, for his own safety, Aria launches her meal all over creation, apparently slinging it in a lasso motion high above her head, the banister, her, the floor, the table now have little pieces of pasta stuck to them. Game on.

I call the dogs back in, but only Buddy bravely peeks around the corner. Zeus just looks at me through the dog door and Anja is long gone. As the dogs clean up the edibles, you mop up the milk. And leave out some rags for a massive floor cleaning session later, after you finish this therapeutic post. Aria keeps eating what's left of her dinner now stuck to her, her shirt and her tray. This gives you the opportunity to regain your sanity doing some dishes.

snarky little post that keeps you from running through the street screaming and oh yeah, bring in those filing cabinets!

It's hard to write this, because I want to be clear, I'm not complaining, everything is perfectly as it should be, and I am very happy. And Brian hates hearing about these types of things, so I don't mention any of it when I call him. I just want to remember these days, because I ask my mom, and she says yes, "I had those, and yes, it was like you all were ganging up on me at the same time." Sorry Mom, bet this looks good from your view! I'd be laughing. (I purposely put a day between posting this so that I could edit out some of the in-the-moment emotional charge. The day wasn't really that bad, I've definitely had worse.)

Update: Tuesday was a good day. We had Thai for dinner because it was cold and rainy and traffic was hell. Kids loved it and I didn't have clean those dishes. There are still plenty in my own sink waiting for me. :)