Friday, June 26, 2015

The Happy and Sad Club

"If you're happy and you know it, cry for no reason."

Afternoon Readers,

Another week gone, another three billion dishes and loads of laundry done. Along with those, I drank about seven hundred cups of coffee, so everything has pretty much evened itself out before the weekend. What have you guys been up to?

Besides riding the everlasting wave of housework, I'm loathe to admit the rest of my time has been spent lounging in the exclusive area I fondly refer to as the Happy and Sad Club. It happens every time I'm pregnant, each day of each trimester punctuated by huge surges of elation, followed very closely by a crashing surf of sadness. Frankly, it's a roller coaster ride I'd completely forgotten about, but it's back with a fury. Some call it hormones. Others, a variation of prenatal depression. I call it a huge pain in my usually happy ass.

The hardest part is the unpredictability. For example... 

8am: Well, the kitchen's pretty cleaned up. Only two dirty pans left and the counter needs to be wiped up, but, no sweat, I'll tackle that after I eat second breakfast.

10am: Why did we even buy a house? This counter is disgusting. If I can't even keep a counter clean, how can I possibly raise these children to be functioning adults? Who lets someone who can't wield a washcloth have children? Honestly. Hoooooooonestly. *Eats third breakfast in the bathroom and cries for ten minutes.*

11am-2pm: All right, that's two whole emails I've responded to. I'm pretty much the most organized person ever. Ice cream for everyone!

3pm: *This spot reserved for crying for no reason*

3:30pm: Hmm, where'd that drink I poured for myself go? It's gone. Why's it gone? The toddler's running away, a sure sign of guilt. Ugh, and I'm too big to run after him. It's like I can't even have a drink to myself anymore. Then again, if I catch him, what am I going to do, squeeze it back out of him? *Cries while pouring more diet cream soda*

4pm: Ok, the bills are done and we even have money left over to rent a movie on demand. Wow, I should've been an accountant.

5pm: You know what we don't have money for though? Renovating the entire house. Don't most people renovate their whole property a month after they move in? Probably. Then again, maybe that was a Tom Hanks movie I watched.

5:10pm: Holy crap, did I plan anything for dinner? Yes. No. Yes!

6:00pm: What do you mean you don't want casserole? I bet the Pioneer Woman's kids eat her casserole. Then again, she makes blueberry lemonade from scratch and curls her hair before she makes pie. Maybe if I'd broken out the curling iron this morning, my kids would be eating a shit ton of this potato monstrosity too.

6:05: No, wait. This is actually a terrible casserole. That's the next time I take a recipe off a flyer pinned under my windshield wiper.

6:30pm: I think I'll randomly try on this pair of shorts that fit me before I was pregnant. *More crying*

7:00pm: Ok, baths, clean pajamas, prayers, bedtime. Only have to put the kids back in their bed fifty-two more times and Husband and I can have a conversation.

8:00pm: What the heck would we do without TV? Time to bury my emotions deep down while living vicariously through Scrubs and Game of Thrones. I should've been a doctor... or royalty. *Quietly re-examines life choices too closely.*

10:00pm....

Me: Time to go to sleep.

Brain: You know what we didn't think about today?

Me: What?

Brain: All the other stuff that makes you cry.

Me: Great. Let's do this.  *Cries softly about over-priced milk and the hairbrush I forgot to clean out*

It's not the most fun in the world, but I've done it enough times now to know it'll pass. Most days pass pretty well, and the pots in the sink eventually all get washed. Crying about everything will definitely blow over, but I can't say as much for my casserole skills. Those are actually really bad and will be a constant in my life forever. Just like the laundry and my coffee.

Until Next Time, Readers!

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Friday, June 19, 2015

The Cost of Friendship Is Seventy-Five Dollars

I'm sorry, toilet. For what we did, and also because the former owners put you in a blue bathroom that looks like a faded pair of Wranglers.

Afternoon Readers,

I speak often of my penchant for hermitude. Part of me really enjoys hanging out in a public setting, while the other, greater, part of me gravitates towards closing the doors, retreating to my bedroom, and making a tent out of my comforter. After which, I crawl under said blanket for three hundred years and read until the one missing person's report filed on behalf is crumbled up and put in the recycle bin.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with being a homebody, but, occasionally, solitude can turn into its own special sort of isolation, and the rogue call from a friend is embraced by my untoned arms.

Last week's message read as thus:

Hey Paige!

I'll be in town next week and want to stop by. Will bring coffee.

Sincerely,

Old College Friend

Noting the coffee pledge, I quickly added this friend I hadn't seen in ten years to my living will, accepted the offer, and made plans to make it look like I cleaned my house more than once a fortnight. Things were slow around Kellerman house, and I needed someone to chat with. Pregnancy had curbed whatever appetite I had for social situations, and there was a very distinct possibility I'd gotten tired of my own voice shouting, "For the love of all that's good and holy, stop opening the refrigerator."

By the time the knock came on the door, I was so cooped up with little people's requests, I simultaneously hugged my friend and tried to give her two or three children to take home. This was a bad plan because she has four of her own and was enjoying her own special brand of escape.

I played the gracious hostess. "Come in! Sit down! Never leave me!"

Making good on her promise, I enjoyed a gifted iced coffee as big as Volkswagen while we waxed nostalgic about when we were single and didn't where pants with panels. The great thing about visiting with mom friends is their inability to register the dumb things your kids are doing while you two carve out adult conversation. Any parent worth their salt who's been left in charge of kids but decides to have a visitor over anyway, knows it goes something like this...

"So, like I was saying, I only shop at ni... Hey, did you hear that noise?"

"Yeah, it's fine."

"You sure?"

"Yep. It's probably just the kids doing something extremely destructive in another part of the house. But tell me more about that new app you found that locates the nearest donut shop."

"Right, so it's called Tasty Tracker."

It's the time old cost of social interaction for those of us constantly watching children. You may have friends, but unless you want to fork over money for a babysitter and head out the door, you're going to end up staying home and paying in one or more of your worldly possessions. This is especially true for the parent who stays home. You're habitually the built-in babysitter for the other person's work, errands after work, or last minute social calls because you're already there. That doesn't really ease the blow when they get home though.

Before he got back, Husband hadn't been adequately prepared for the scenario. He walked and and looked unsettled. "Hey there. What's going on?"

I waved and smiled, hours of conversation having wiped the stress lines that inhabit the area between the bridge of my nose and my hairline away. "Hey, honey. This is my friend from college."

He nodded. "Nice to meet you. What are the kids doing?"

Shrugging, I pointed up the stairs. "Plaaaaying... I think."

I felt a small twinge of guilt, but that's the price of friend time, guilt and not knowing what the hell your kids have been doing. Screaming in a way which suggests someone has been stabbed hadn't occurred, so that was good. Although, the baby had brought me my toothbrush, deodorant, and leave-in conditioner, so, upon reflection, that should've been some sort of red flag.

His shoulders tensed and he headed upstairs. I continued my visit while I made dinner, served said dinner, and emotionally saw my guest back out the door. For the first time in weeks, I was happy.

"Um, why is all my stuff missing?"

Shit. Time to pay the piper.

I looked away from the door and innocently back at Husband. "What stuff would that be?"

"My toothbrush, deodorant, shaving cream, toothpaste. Pretty much everything I keep in our bathroom."

"I might have all that stuff down here."

He sighed. "Were you watching them this afternoon?"

"More or less."

As it turns out, it was a little more than I thought. The baby had taken it upon himself to not only sneak in the bathroom, but flush some unknown objects down the toilet. A quick call to the plumber, seventy-five dollars later, and the additional news that water is also leaking into our garage from that same toilet, and we were back in business. (Sort of. More on that as it develops.)

So, would I do it again? Of course. I'll simply be locking my bedroom door next time. Moms have to find sanity somewhere. I just hope the total comes in under seventy-five dollars next time.

Until Next Time, Readers!



Like what you read here? Buy some Cankles
And if quick bathroom reads are your friend, grab The Big Book of Parenting Tweets: Featuring the Most Hilarious Parents on Twitter!
And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Evening Out the Numbers

Just a friendly game of "Let's Paint, On the Fireplace."

Afternoon Readers,

I promise I'm not going to turn into a twice-a-year blogger, but the past few weeks have definitely been trending thus:

Be pregnant.
Feel fat.
Gather all energy and throw it heartily at caring for children and excavating last serving of ice cream from freezer. (Possible cause of fat feelings)
Eat Firey Cheetos. (Also probably tied to feelings of fatness.)
Watch marathons of Fixer Upper and hope they accidentally come and renovate our house.
Watch marathon of Scrubs.
Wash, rinse, repeat.

I totally forgot how the first weeks of pregnancy, while worth it, wreak a special sort of havoc on one's motivation for pretty much anything. Until yesterday, I didn't want to conquer the world. I did not want to achieve anything. I didn't even want to put on pants. So I didn't. You what comes between me and my Calvin's? Really cheap underwear I walk around in and hope no one sees when I open the door to drag in whatever the UPS guy threw at our fiberglass porthole. 

I guess what I'm saying is, if you're pregnant right now, it's ok not to get all the things done. This is my third time walking the path, and I still haven't fully grasped that concept. But you know what?