Monday, February 22, 2010

Damage Control

It is a good thing babies are resilient.  Within just a short period of time, Owen has landed in the ER with an injury due to a faulty seat latch in the van, and Connor has landed, after a long, noisy fall, at the bottom of the basement stairs.  Somehow he did not end up with a mark on him...although how he managed it I will never know.  We heard him hit every step on the way down.  Both incidents made my heart stop, and I think I cried more than the babies.  I know it took me much longer than them to get over it...both were running and causing mischief within an hour after each incident.  I think I was still shaking.

I always joked about these boys giving me a heart attack before age 35...I think they took it seriously.  On top of the actual traumatic events, there are the daily near-traumatic events that leave me needing "quiet time" and a glass of wine in the evening.  My husband has begun to recognize the signs that I am ready for bedtime:  the constant glances at the clock, sometimes with narrowed eyes (thinking that if I stare hard enough, I can use the power of the Force to speed up time,) the drumming of the fingers on the table, my speech patterns becoming quicker, higher pitched, and, at times, quite shaky, and the ever present heavy sigh.  After a long day of pulling babies off of tables, stools, entertainment centers and chairs...after rescuing the cat, the television, Irelynn's beloved Froggy, and my new cell phone from immediate peril...and cleaning up milk, (insert food served at each mealtime,) cat fur from a frazzled cat, my tupperware and legos....I am mentally and physically exhausted.  My husband thinks I am insane for instantly cleaning up after every little thing anymore...but I know that if I don' will build up throughout the day into a massive monster that I will have to battle before bed.  And I'd much rather drink my wine than battle the monster...I'd end up putting him off until the morning, and then he'd ruin my day.  So, I follow the children around with a broom and a washcloth, like the uncle I used to make fun of for obsessively cleaning. 

Some day, they will all be older and in school.  As I have already discovered with my teens, that doesn't mean life gets easier...BUT....I will have those precious few hours while they are at school to rest.  I'm sure I'll still want a glass of wine in the evening...but by then I can pretend that it's because I'm sophisticated, not stressed.  Just like I can pretend that the gray hair makes me look distiguished...

Monday, February 1, 2010

Morning Madness

Today is not going well. 

No amount of coffee can cure a morning of pure madness.   I know, because I have already downed half a pot.  So far, Connor alone has hurdled himself over the side of the bathtub...leaving himself a nice red bump on the head, pulled the cat across the the tail, smacked his brother with his older sister's Tinkerbell shoe, and thrown his toothbrush into the trash. 

My toddler, missing a shoe, is dressed as Tinkerbell...dress, wings, and a fuzzy green headband that I do not remember Tinkerbell ever wearing, but apparently is the most important part of the costume.  She is sitting at the table, legs swinging, as she eats her oatmeal with blueberries.  In one of my better moments, I tell her she should probably remove the costume while she eats, just in case. 

You this house...there is never really "just in case."  It is, almost always, a given that there will be a case. 

She takes the dress off, and sits back down in her underwear to resume eating.  I begin to smell something....and realize Owen desperately needs a diaper change.  Now, while I had the foresight to remove the Tinkerbell costume...I did not think to bring Connor out to the living room with me, and close the gate so that he did not have access to his sister while I changed his brother.

"Mommy....Connor's doing bad things..."


"Ok...just a minute....I'm almost done...." I have a boy half naked with stuff on his bum that could not go ignored at the moment.


A blood curdling scream. 

I run out to the kitchen to find Connor sitting on top of the dining room table, with a huge grin, and my toddler, eyes as big as saucers....covered in oatmeal and blueberries.  The bowl was spinning on the floor. 

This was all before noon. 

My husband had once mentioned, due to the fact that Google says I am no longer allowed to make money off of my blog (apparently the measely change I had made was "too much,") that we should add an option for those who enjoyed the blog to donate to his PayPal account.  I told him this was absolutely absurd. 

I would much rather have people donate beer.  To our doorstep. 

Anyone who is interested may send beer, in care of  Maureen Sawdon, Desperate Mommy, to our address. 

Thank You.

Disclaimer:  The author of this blog is not actually soliciting donations of alcohol; she is merely making lame attempts at using sarcasm.  However, any actual donations will not be denied, and would be greatly appreciated.