A Rambling Tale With No Point
April 27, 2005 in Confessions, Marriage with 16 Comments
My alarm rang at 5:00 a.m. and I slapped it into submission and slept until 5:10 a.m. I showered, half-dried my tresses, pulled on the clothes I’d draped on the exercise bike last night, wore glasses and a Mr. Rogers sweater. I drove to CuteBaby’s house, arriving at 5:50 a.m. His mom had to go to her military job early again, just to check in. (No physical testing for her because she’s still on the maternity plan.)
I was back home by 7:00 a.m.
By 7:30 a.m., I had baked my first pan of homemade chocolate chip cookies to satisfy Babygirl’s directives: “I want cookies! I want cookies!” Frankly, I wanted cookies, too.
My very long day included:
–twin 12-year old boys who spent more time exchanging nonsense-talk than doing literature lessons;
–two and a half year old daughter who is still coughing, gagging and wiping snot on her sleeves;
–DaycareKid who is not catching on to potty-training (but, hey, at least I know now that he is not constipated);
–infinite laundry;
–really out-of-control, bad hair which I spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating today;
–and CuteBaby (but he took long naps today).
Oh. And a box came in the mail, which is generally cause for rejoicing. The box contained a giant, thick envelope from my mother-in-law. In the envelope were all the pictures I’ve sent her over the years (eighteen years, almost), including the sweet little Creative Memories scrapbook I made especially for her.
Only a few weeks ago, the same mother-in-law complained to me on the phone that I hadn’t sent her any pictures recently.
You figure that one out. I called my husband and he suggested she was preparing to die, which is a fairly morbid thing to say, but that demonstrates his sick sense of humor which is primarily why I love him so much.
We’ve recently been cracking up at the song-list we’re compiling for our imaginary twenty-fifth anniversary bash. (We hate parties. There will be no bash.) I suggested “Hard Habit to Break” and “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.” He chose “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” and “If You Leave Me Now”. We think it would be hilarious to have these types of songs playing continuously in the background as partygoers clutch non-alcoholic drinks and little paper plates holding slabs of Costco cake. This joke–this pretend song-list–will go on for months, maybe years.
I also love him because he brought me salad for lunch at 2:30 p.m. when he called and I complained that I hadn’t had a chance to eat lunch yet. He brought Subway sandwiches for the boys’ dinner. When he returned home at 5:30 p.m. to find Babygirl imprisoned in her crib throwing a tantrum while I chatted with CuteBaby’s mom while she was picking him up–looking sweaty and disheveled, me, not her–he rescued Babygirl and she stopped crying long enough for him to transfer her to me.
After the switcharoo, she wrapped her sweaty arms around my neck and tried to steer me. No rocking chair. No kitchen chair. She insisted that I stand precisely in the center of the kitchen, no leaning on counters allowed. As you can imagine, this was great fun for me. Okay, it was annoying. My back began to ache.
My husband suggested he take her for a van ride, knowing she would scream, then sleep. That’s exactly what happened. While I buckled her in, she threw a fit worthy of any child seen on Nanny 9-1-1. That’s my sweetie-pie.
So the day ends. Mrs. Darling would be completely horrified if she saw the state of my carpets. She vacuums every day and once a week–ONCE A WEEK–she vacuums under all the furniture in her house (beds, dressers, everything). I am amazed, jealous and mostly, I wish I could hire her to be my Personal Vacuumer.
I want my floors to be vacuumed. I just want someone else to do it.
I am a horrible housewife. When I told my husband about Mrs. Darling’s spic-and-span carpets and lamented about my own dismal housewifery standards, he said, “That’s okay. I’m not a handyman, either, and you don’t hold that against me.”
And when I say, “I hate my hair! What shall I do with it?” He says, as if preprogrammed, “No matter what you do, I always like your hair.”
He’s a liar, but he’s my liar and he makes me laugh.