|If you're not following my friend, Lurk At Home Mom, you can do that here and thank me later. She just gets me, you know?|
You know what pairs well with crippling self doubt?
Sometimes a Toblerone.
I've realized something about myself over the last week. Namely, my instincts regarding living creatures pretty much come to a screeching stop at babies. Oh, feed, clothe, change, and keep a baby happy? Check.
Figure out when a dog has to pee? ...Bueller.
The last ten days have been rough. There's really no other way to put it. I suppose I could wax all sunshine and rainbows, but where's the fun in that? Surely, pure elation lies in the details I need to relay, like watching the dog poop on the carpet over and over. Or maybe some poop in the kitchen. And the living room. Oh, and let's not forget the explosive diarrhea on the deck just now.
(Gonna have to hose that one down. Or stain the whole thing brown. I'll have to check the budget for this year.)
Say what you want about babies, but can I get an 'amen' for diapers? It's more than a tad frustrating to be able to buy the Little Lady some nice size twos but not be able to wrap some extras around the dog. Put some Pampers on your Labrador, and all of the sudden you're the town crazy.
"Oh, Paige Kellerman? One minute she was putting her dog in Huggies, the next, she was handing out pamphlets at the neighborhood barbecue, all about not really being out from under the shadow of the Y2K scare yet. She also ate all the potato salad that year."
The amount of times I've wandered around this week, with a baby under one arm and a puppy under the other, is staggering. Literally. That's a ton of weight to haul up all three flights of stairs in The Oak Palace. My calves look fabulous, but everything from the knees up is pretty rough. Meanwhile, Doc trots behind, asking my thoughts on the complexity of the week's installment of Power Rangers Dino Charge. Which doesn't bother me, I just wish I had more mental energy to commit to the complexity of the plot up to this point:
Will Shelby get together with Riley?
Where the hell is the missing intergem?
Is it ok for a thirty-something mom to have a thing for the Black Ranger? *folding laundry* "Ok, he's supposed to be sixteen, but the actor's really about twenty-seven. Not weird? Weird. Weirder that I Googled that. I've been staying home too long. Oh, there's that missing sock."
So, whereas I thought I'd be kicking off spring with many projects being undertaken and trying to figure out why we have ants the size of semi trucks roaming the halls, I'm containing yet more poop. There's also a smattering of...
Wondering if I'll mop the floor in 2016
And trying to get the twins to the end of Kindergarten.
Oh, and just in case you're wondering what Kindergarten's been like so far, here's a snapshot.
Me: Time to rise and shine for school!
Me: Come on. Socks, shoes, outfits, breakfast. Move it.
Sundance: Life is hard and you're mean.
Me: I am mean. Lucky for you, I retired from a life of knife fighting on the street to wash your socks instead.
Butch: I give up.
Me: Yes. Yes. Mommy did that years ago, but that doesn't mean we don't have to put on a fresh t-shirt and tackle the day. Kisses! I have to run down stairs and milk fresh Lucky Charms from the box for my babies.
Repeat scene endlessly.
School's almost over though, and the potential for having everyone home, chasing after the dog, and trying to paint the cabinets and all the woodwork in the Oak Palace white is looming.
Aren't you glad we get to spend the summer together?
That's what I thought. Pass the Toblerone.
Until Next Time, Readers!
Like what you read here?
And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on: