So, today was Jack's kindergarten Christmas sing-a-long at school Mass today. The kind that parents and kids alike dress up for and the kind that have as many camera flashes popping off as Club LAX in L.A. when Lindsay Lohan or Britney Spears tries to sneak out the back door. I suppose I should not mention Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan in the same sentence as Mass, should I?
I digress.
I had to bring Annie along, since her schools are all out and there are no sitters to be had. Despite the fact that I brought along tons of crayons, paper, princesses, snacks, etc., she STILL had the much-anticipated meltdown, right after Communion. Turns out she wanted one of those "white circle things" which, as Catholics know, is the sacred host that is generally not considered a snack food akin to, say, a Goldfish cracker.
So the wailing begins. "I want the white circle thing."
Me: "Here, have a princess."
Annie: "I WANT the white circle thing."
Me, putting my arm around her and whispering in a firm voice: "Here. Have a crayon. We are in church, quiet voice please."
Annie: "I WANT THE WHITE CIRCLE THING. NOW. PLEASE."
Me: "Do not yell in church. There are no more white circle things."
Uh-oh, bad choice of words. She now begins her trademark flailing and, accordingly, heads begin to turn, like the ripple effect of tossing a small rock into a pond. You know, when first graders look at you like, "Can't you control that kid, lady?" you have a problem.
I take her out of church, well, I lug her out of church and whisper a nasty "You ruined this for Jack and me" into her ear. We walk around the back of the church and by now, Jack's little series of songs is beginning and I realize I will not be able to see any of it or be able to show him I am there for him. I plop her by the Nativity scene and say, "Oooh, lambies," but she is not fooled for a second. "IWANTAWHITECIRCLETHING."
Other parents try to be sympathetic but you know they are thinking the same thing that first grader is thinking when they shoot me the Look.
As it turns out, I don't get to see more than a few seconds of Jack's angelic singing and I actually have to take her to the potty in between all of her crying and fit-throwing. She still is crying during the parent picture-taking session, which I, of course, can't participate in because I FORGOT my camera this morning, in the rush of getting everyone and their teacher gifts out the door and in one piece.
I bring her home to our house so Grandma can watch her and I go back to Jack's party, thinking this will be quiet and uneventfully sweet.
I am Bozo Bucket mom and that sounds like something cute, right? Well, one little girl knocks over the Legos, which sends two of the kids in my group looking over at her just at the moment where their heads are within centimeters. CRASH. Head to head. I look down, and one of the injured is my son, bleeding slightly but still bleeding from the mouth. The other child, my son's friend, is now really sobbing and, again, all eyes in the room are on me. Except now, the kindergartners look like they are thinking, "Man, don't you have any control over ANYTHING?", mirroring the expressions on the adults' faces.
Sometimes, I wonder why it's always me and mine. Actually, I wonder that every day.
The only bright spot in this cruddy day, the one that also happens to be the shortest day of the year and feels like the longest, is the fact that Jack and Kevin both hug me later on (Kevin says, first thing when he gets into the car, "Wow, that was embarrassing this morning, wasn't it? Everyone was asking if the screaming kid was my sister!") and tell me that it'll be all right and that they love me. And Annie keeps giving me the sideways look for the rest of the day. "You nice now?" she says. "You nice now?" I shoot back. "I always nice," she responds, then gives me a soft kiss on the cheek.
Cute and all, but that doesn't mean I'm taking her to Christmas Mass!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The REAL Christmas Picture
By now, our friends and family probably have received the 2007 Petrak Christmas card. The four children, in their festive red outfits and black dress shoes, look catalog-ready and perhaps even a bit cherubic huddled together in front of the backyard pine tree.
That’s just the picture. Here’s the real snapshot.
As anyone who has ever prepped their kids for a holiday portrait, whether it’s a quick digital shot in front of the fireplace or a formal sitting at a studio, can attest, it’s no small task. First, a theme must be determined (Summertime on the beach? Everyone in tartan plaid?) that may or may not hinge on the card itself. Perhaps you, like me, want to gear the location and color scheme of the photo around the card you picked out beforehand. Either way, you had to trek to the mall, in between school pick-up, drop-off and work around the home or office, to pick out matching-- or at least not-clashing – clothes that for the kids that look nice but don’t cost as much as, say, your entire holiday budget.
Then, somewhere between Halloween and December 15 (Not too early! Not too late!) you arrange to have the Christmas picture taken. If you are anything like us, there is a 30-minute process of getting ready, which usually entails some type of screeching and/or beseeching: “Why in God’s name are you wearing gym socks!” “No, I didn’t just take God’s name in vain. Well, yes I did and I’m sorry, but be quiet and get the right socks on!” “Is that ketchup on your pants? Really? Seriously?” “Don’t you want to wear a barrette? HoldstillholdstillholdstillHOLDSTILL!” and, always a second or two before you’re ready get in place, “Why didn’t you use the washroom BEFORE you got dressed?”
This year, we had all of that, and more. Let’s recap.
It’s the day after Thanksgiving, pretty nippy at 25 degrees or so. After the annual ordeal of getting presentable, we tromp out, jacketless, to the back yard when three-year-old Annie, heretofore in a good mood, announces, “No. I don’t want to take a picture.” I try a little cajoling. No dice. A little firmer cajoling. That sends her into a tizzy and she plops herself down in her brand spanking new red velvet dress in the cold, muddy ground, which immediately gets smudged right into her red velvet backside.
Okay, I say to myself, breathe. At least you won’t see her back in the picture.
My professional photographer sister, who does our portrait every year, is looking worried. This, despite the fact that she has taken pictures of children her whole career and knows that in the end you can get one good shot out of 52 tries, even with a mother desperately flailing her arms behind her in an attempt to get several sets of eyes fixed in the same spot and equal toothy smiles.
I soon see why my sister seems concerned. By now, Annie is furiously kicking her legs up and down on the ground. Her brothers try to calm her down, but two of them end up squabbling. “Leave her alone! Let Mom take care of her!” one rails. “I can calm her down if I want to!” retorts the other.
It seems, with such big tears rolling down Annie’s face (which now matches the red hue of her dress) that the outdoor picture is not a go. So we all head inside once I scoop up the wailing girl, tuck her under my arm and lug her through the back door
Annie relaxes after a few minutes and agrees to a few shots by the fireplace. But because I am so obsessed with having the evergreen branches from the pre-purchased greeting card match this year’s photo, we eventually return to the yard for a second go-round.
This time, I bring along some Christmas toys to keep my daughter occupied. It seems to work and we get that great shot of the boys surrounding her as she shakes my favorite Starbucks snow globe.
That’s right, my favorite Starbucks snow globe. The one that 10 minutes after we finish the photo session she drops on the hardwood floor. “Whoopsie-daisy!” she exclaims, wearing that same bemused smile you see in the picture.
That bemused smile does not match my own. “NOBODY MOVE! NOBODY MOVE, DAMMIT! THERE IS GLASS HERE! DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT – I SAID ‘DAMMIT’ BECAUSE I DON’T WANT YOU TO GET HURT, O.K?” Of course, the children are all now barefoot and standing precariously near the shards of broken glass. Cleaning up that glass looks to be a challenge, too, since all of the snowglobe glitter-water is pooling around it.
Mike, at this point, pipes up from the TV room, where he has wisely tucked himself away for the last chaotic half hour after his role as Hair Gel Stylist was complete. “What’s going on in there? Geez, it’s just a Christmas card!”
So, now, picture this: Annie, crying because I am yelling. Kevin, starting to well up because he gave me that Starbucks snow globe for Christmas last year. Matt, approaching me and the pile of broken glass, ignoring my efforts to shoo him away. Jack, standing by the fireplace with eyes as wide as silver dollars, gaping as I grab a towel and broom and simultaneously bark at Matt to back away, try to console Kevin, wipe away my own tears and give my preschooler a grimace for starting all of this.
What a Kodak moment.
Three weeks after the pictures from that day were taken and one was chosen, downloaded, e-mailed to Walgreen’s, picked up, glued to the cards, slid into envelopes and dumped into a mailbox, I pick up an extra copy and look at it closely. In my mind’s eye, I remember the broken snow globe and think about the large sliver of glass that I discovered the next day, thankful that no one’s heel or toe found it first. I once again marvel how much work it is to pull together all things Christmas, whether it’s the cards, shopping, Christmas plays and parties or cooking and cleaning for December 25 itself.
As I gaze at that picture, though, I am struck by how beautiful our kids are, if I do say so myself. I notice how Kevin has laced his fingers protectively on his baby sister’s shoulder, how Jack wore an undershirt because he insisted “that’s what you do when you dress up,” how Matt has affectionately draped his arm around Jack without any prompting. I realize that my husband had combed their hair just right and made sure their shoes were nicely buffed. I am moved by my daughter’s enchanted expression as she swirls glittery flakes around an encased plastic tree and I am amazed by how much her curls resemble my late mother’s ringlets in photos of her at the same age. That, in turn, reminds me of how our small family has lost a cherished father, grandmother and aunt since last year’s Christmas portrait, underscoring the point that taking time to convey friendship and love is a worthwhile endeavor.
That same morning, I look up at the door where I have taped all of the holiday photos of our friends and family. I wonder if any of you had the same type of drama that we had in trying to get a good photo together. I doubt there were any broken snow globes or muddy dresses involved, since that seems to be our own special Petrak thing, but I’m sure every family experiences some level of stress setting up a holiday vignette, just as every mom or dad is likely to look at the finished image and mull over how fast the kids are growing.
Maybe next year, we’ll forgo all of the fanciness and do a more casual picture. But come November, I’ll probably be out searching for a quadruple set of off-white shirts and light denim jeans.
I’ll just be sure to hide all glass objects the next one. Except for the cocktail glasses that I will use for myself, my husband and my sister when it’s all over.
Again, the merriest of Christmases to you and yours. And may you have as many picture-perfect moments as you do hectic ones in the coming year!
That’s just the picture. Here’s the real snapshot.
As anyone who has ever prepped their kids for a holiday portrait, whether it’s a quick digital shot in front of the fireplace or a formal sitting at a studio, can attest, it’s no small task. First, a theme must be determined (Summertime on the beach? Everyone in tartan plaid?) that may or may not hinge on the card itself. Perhaps you, like me, want to gear the location and color scheme of the photo around the card you picked out beforehand. Either way, you had to trek to the mall, in between school pick-up, drop-off and work around the home or office, to pick out matching-- or at least not-clashing – clothes that for the kids that look nice but don’t cost as much as, say, your entire holiday budget.
Then, somewhere between Halloween and December 15 (Not too early! Not too late!) you arrange to have the Christmas picture taken. If you are anything like us, there is a 30-minute process of getting ready, which usually entails some type of screeching and/or beseeching: “Why in God’s name are you wearing gym socks!” “No, I didn’t just take God’s name in vain. Well, yes I did and I’m sorry, but be quiet and get the right socks on!” “Is that ketchup on your pants? Really? Seriously?” “Don’t you want to wear a barrette? HoldstillholdstillholdstillHOLDSTILL!” and, always a second or two before you’re ready get in place, “Why didn’t you use the washroom BEFORE you got dressed?”
This year, we had all of that, and more. Let’s recap.
It’s the day after Thanksgiving, pretty nippy at 25 degrees or so. After the annual ordeal of getting presentable, we tromp out, jacketless, to the back yard when three-year-old Annie, heretofore in a good mood, announces, “No. I don’t want to take a picture.” I try a little cajoling. No dice. A little firmer cajoling. That sends her into a tizzy and she plops herself down in her brand spanking new red velvet dress in the cold, muddy ground, which immediately gets smudged right into her red velvet backside.
Okay, I say to myself, breathe. At least you won’t see her back in the picture.
My professional photographer sister, who does our portrait every year, is looking worried. This, despite the fact that she has taken pictures of children her whole career and knows that in the end you can get one good shot out of 52 tries, even with a mother desperately flailing her arms behind her in an attempt to get several sets of eyes fixed in the same spot and equal toothy smiles.
I soon see why my sister seems concerned. By now, Annie is furiously kicking her legs up and down on the ground. Her brothers try to calm her down, but two of them end up squabbling. “Leave her alone! Let Mom take care of her!” one rails. “I can calm her down if I want to!” retorts the other.
It seems, with such big tears rolling down Annie’s face (which now matches the red hue of her dress) that the outdoor picture is not a go. So we all head inside once I scoop up the wailing girl, tuck her under my arm and lug her through the back door
Annie relaxes after a few minutes and agrees to a few shots by the fireplace. But because I am so obsessed with having the evergreen branches from the pre-purchased greeting card match this year’s photo, we eventually return to the yard for a second go-round.
This time, I bring along some Christmas toys to keep my daughter occupied. It seems to work and we get that great shot of the boys surrounding her as she shakes my favorite Starbucks snow globe.
That’s right, my favorite Starbucks snow globe. The one that 10 minutes after we finish the photo session she drops on the hardwood floor. “Whoopsie-daisy!” she exclaims, wearing that same bemused smile you see in the picture.
That bemused smile does not match my own. “NOBODY MOVE! NOBODY MOVE, DAMMIT! THERE IS GLASS HERE! DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT – I SAID ‘DAMMIT’ BECAUSE I DON’T WANT YOU TO GET HURT, O.K?” Of course, the children are all now barefoot and standing precariously near the shards of broken glass. Cleaning up that glass looks to be a challenge, too, since all of the snowglobe glitter-water is pooling around it.
Mike, at this point, pipes up from the TV room, where he has wisely tucked himself away for the last chaotic half hour after his role as Hair Gel Stylist was complete. “What’s going on in there? Geez, it’s just a Christmas card!”
So, now, picture this: Annie, crying because I am yelling. Kevin, starting to well up because he gave me that Starbucks snow globe for Christmas last year. Matt, approaching me and the pile of broken glass, ignoring my efforts to shoo him away. Jack, standing by the fireplace with eyes as wide as silver dollars, gaping as I grab a towel and broom and simultaneously bark at Matt to back away, try to console Kevin, wipe away my own tears and give my preschooler a grimace for starting all of this.
What a Kodak moment.
Three weeks after the pictures from that day were taken and one was chosen, downloaded, e-mailed to Walgreen’s, picked up, glued to the cards, slid into envelopes and dumped into a mailbox, I pick up an extra copy and look at it closely. In my mind’s eye, I remember the broken snow globe and think about the large sliver of glass that I discovered the next day, thankful that no one’s heel or toe found it first. I once again marvel how much work it is to pull together all things Christmas, whether it’s the cards, shopping, Christmas plays and parties or cooking and cleaning for December 25 itself.
As I gaze at that picture, though, I am struck by how beautiful our kids are, if I do say so myself. I notice how Kevin has laced his fingers protectively on his baby sister’s shoulder, how Jack wore an undershirt because he insisted “that’s what you do when you dress up,” how Matt has affectionately draped his arm around Jack without any prompting. I realize that my husband had combed their hair just right and made sure their shoes were nicely buffed. I am moved by my daughter’s enchanted expression as she swirls glittery flakes around an encased plastic tree and I am amazed by how much her curls resemble my late mother’s ringlets in photos of her at the same age. That, in turn, reminds me of how our small family has lost a cherished father, grandmother and aunt since last year’s Christmas portrait, underscoring the point that taking time to convey friendship and love is a worthwhile endeavor.
That same morning, I look up at the door where I have taped all of the holiday photos of our friends and family. I wonder if any of you had the same type of drama that we had in trying to get a good photo together. I doubt there were any broken snow globes or muddy dresses involved, since that seems to be our own special Petrak thing, but I’m sure every family experiences some level of stress setting up a holiday vignette, just as every mom or dad is likely to look at the finished image and mull over how fast the kids are growing.
Maybe next year, we’ll forgo all of the fanciness and do a more casual picture. But come November, I’ll probably be out searching for a quadruple set of off-white shirts and light denim jeans.
I’ll just be sure to hide all glass objects the next one. Except for the cocktail glasses that I will use for myself, my husband and my sister when it’s all over.
Again, the merriest of Christmases to you and yours. And may you have as many picture-perfect moments as you do hectic ones in the coming year!
Monday, April 16, 2007
Not so bad
More trite and trivial bad day updates tomorrow, but today is not a day for complaining. Not when I have six healthy, living hearts in my home and we are all keenly aware that others, a quarter-country away, are not so lucky.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Part II
Addendum to the First Bad Day
Well, not so bad after 6. Except for the cooking spray incident. Which is now The Cooking Spray Incident.
I was trying to start dinner, making some Cornflake-crusted chicken breasts. Taking out any frustrations by pounding the poor boneless skinless breasts to heck, I was attempting to double-task and spray the baking dish. Didn't work out so well. Thanks my slick poultry-slimed (and potentially Salmonella-carrying) hand, I dropped the cooking spray on the counter. The plastic top of the nozzle fell off and the nozzle then broke, shooting out cooking spray all over the counter, the cabinets, and, unfortunately, me. I felt something sticky and cold on my belly and sure enough, I had been slimed by Olive Oil flavored Pam. Since it was a nearly full can -- of course! -- I had to put it in the sink, where all of the contents eventually were released in a shiny yellowy coating all over the stainless. Nice.
I thought I had cleaned up pretty well and still managed to turn out a pretty nice, albeit crunchy, dinner, but my husband still noticed the shiny streaks on the wall, way above the cabinet. "What the hell is that?" he wondered in that oh-gosh-I'm-just-wondering tone (HA!). And there I am, feebly explaining how I dropped the cooking spray, right after I busted the vacuum by pouring water in it, right after I vacuumed up an eraser, right after I dropped a glass dish, right after I had let the dishes go all day, right after...well, you get the picture.
Right now, all's quiet and after I finish a work thing or two, I'm heading upstairs to pack for the trip to Michigan, which is all Currier & Ives in a blanket of post-Easter snow.
'Night, all! All zero of you!
Well, not so bad after 6. Except for the cooking spray incident. Which is now The Cooking Spray Incident.
I was trying to start dinner, making some Cornflake-crusted chicken breasts. Taking out any frustrations by pounding the poor boneless skinless breasts to heck, I was attempting to double-task and spray the baking dish. Didn't work out so well. Thanks my slick poultry-slimed (and potentially Salmonella-carrying) hand, I dropped the cooking spray on the counter. The plastic top of the nozzle fell off and the nozzle then broke, shooting out cooking spray all over the counter, the cabinets, and, unfortunately, me. I felt something sticky and cold on my belly and sure enough, I had been slimed by Olive Oil flavored Pam. Since it was a nearly full can -- of course! -- I had to put it in the sink, where all of the contents eventually were released in a shiny yellowy coating all over the stainless. Nice.
I thought I had cleaned up pretty well and still managed to turn out a pretty nice, albeit crunchy, dinner, but my husband still noticed the shiny streaks on the wall, way above the cabinet. "What the hell is that?" he wondered in that oh-gosh-I'm-just-wondering tone (HA!). And there I am, feebly explaining how I dropped the cooking spray, right after I busted the vacuum by pouring water in it, right after I vacuumed up an eraser, right after I dropped a glass dish, right after I had let the dishes go all day, right after...well, you get the picture.
Right now, all's quiet and after I finish a work thing or two, I'm heading upstairs to pack for the trip to Michigan, which is all Currier & Ives in a blanket of post-Easter snow.
'Night, all! All zero of you!
The First Bad Day
Welcome to my Bad Day. At least the first public one.
As a mom of four active (read: crazy) young children, I've been kicking around the idea of writing a blog for a while now, focused on my crazy-usually-crappy days.
I'm sorry, I was just interuppted by my eight year old, who informed me that Winnie, our 12 year old yellow lab, just tinkled (our polite word for pee) in the TV room.
This is why I'm posting, starting my own blog. I want to have an outlet from which to vent, and to create a place for other people, most likely moms and dads, to visit and ultimately feel better about their own day.
It's never a dull day in this house, after all. Here's a rundown of today, all before 6:00 p.m.
* Informed yesterday that my two and a half year old daughter may well have asthma. She's wheezing and coughing from a lingering cold and I have to give her SIX treatments from her nebulizer each day. When she cries, it compounds the situation and you all know what it's like to stop a tempermental diva of a toddler from crying. Sure.
* Aforementioned dog knocked down the garbage not once, but three times. For the last one, I heard a loud BOOM as I was upstairs doing (whatelse?) a poopy diaper change. My nine year old was just sitting a few feet away with Gameboy, totally OBLIVIOUS, while the canine knocked the top off the supposedly secure garbage can, spilling the contents all the way down the basement stairs. Of course, with my bad day luck, the contents included coffee grounds, eggshells, and several dozen discarded cooked peas. Ewwww. Had to vacuum it all before hubby came home.
* Dog, later and when left alone for the afternoon, finds my dad's box of Fannie May butterscrisp candies. It's a one-pound box, left way at the back of my office desk. No explanation needed, right? Lonely, hungry dog eats chocolate. Not good for dog's digestive system. See tomorrow's bad day post for the icky results.
* Emptying dishwasher that I ran at, oh, 9:00 a.m at 5:30. Break a glass bowl all over the tile floor, sending rainbow-y fragments of glass everywhere. My daughter, in the next room, stands precariously next to one shard. In bare feet, as I am.
* I clean up the broken glass with my vacuum that does not turn on or off, but just works when plugged in. I decide to vacuum the entire first floor and slurp up an errant eraser in the family room, which spurs, oh, a small fire in the vacuum. Or at least what I discern to be a fire, but some smelly smoky stuff coming from the base. Being a reasonable person, I take a tupperware filled with water and pour it into the vacuum, ruining it for sure or at least really boosting my risk of electrocution the next time I plug it in.
* Boys are fighting non-stop, bored from staying at home on spring break when it's 30 degrees and snowy. We're supposed to go to Michigian tomorrow for a brief getaway, but guess what? Winter storm warning with 8 inches of forecast snow. Daughter can't run around in snow, as fun as that sounds, because of her asthma, and the boys will be so disappointed that they can't either, because if they go and she doesn't, she'll just stand at the window, wimpering, then wailing, then screaming, then probably gasping from her breathing issues. So that's a defnite no.
* Di d I mention I already had the vacuum out, because Tornado Toddler Girl decided to open and dump the teeny weeny pellets of fish food all over her brother's carpet? Oh, yes, nothing smells quite like fish food further ground up in a vacuum. Combine that with burning rubber and you'll get an olfactory sense of my house today.
I'm sure there's more to come in this bad day. Welcome to my world of chaos and venting. Feel better about yourself and your own life -- check back tomorrow to see how my day is going!
The best part of the day: the five minutes I spend in bed trying to read People magazine after I've put the kids down for the night, kissed them, told them how much I really do love them, tried to write an article or follow up on email after 9:00 p.m. , caught up on TV news and made a a half-hearted attempt to order the dirty dishes in the sink so I can get them in the morning.
Oh wait, I almost forgot I must take out the garbage, since it's laden with broken glass and I have a dog that likes to knock over garbage cans. I have visions of feet cut up so I gotta dash. In my world, that can be a reality in seconds flat.
WELCOME TO MY FIRST BAD DAY. In context, of course. There's always worse and, in a brief disclaimer, realize that people have all sorts of real and awful problems every day. I really am grateful for health, home and family, I just wish I had a normal life, like so many other moms, the ones with manicured nails and lawns, seem to.
BYE!
As a mom of four active (read: crazy) young children, I've been kicking around the idea of writing a blog for a while now, focused on my crazy-usually-crappy days.
I'm sorry, I was just interuppted by my eight year old, who informed me that Winnie, our 12 year old yellow lab, just tinkled (our polite word for pee) in the TV room.
This is why I'm posting, starting my own blog. I want to have an outlet from which to vent, and to create a place for other people, most likely moms and dads, to visit and ultimately feel better about their own day.
It's never a dull day in this house, after all. Here's a rundown of today, all before 6:00 p.m.
* Informed yesterday that my two and a half year old daughter may well have asthma. She's wheezing and coughing from a lingering cold and I have to give her SIX treatments from her nebulizer each day. When she cries, it compounds the situation and you all know what it's like to stop a tempermental diva of a toddler from crying. Sure.
* Aforementioned dog knocked down the garbage not once, but three times. For the last one, I heard a loud BOOM as I was upstairs doing (whatelse?) a poopy diaper change. My nine year old was just sitting a few feet away with Gameboy, totally OBLIVIOUS, while the canine knocked the top off the supposedly secure garbage can, spilling the contents all the way down the basement stairs. Of course, with my bad day luck, the contents included coffee grounds, eggshells, and several dozen discarded cooked peas. Ewwww. Had to vacuum it all before hubby came home.
* Dog, later and when left alone for the afternoon, finds my dad's box of Fannie May butterscrisp candies. It's a one-pound box, left way at the back of my office desk. No explanation needed, right? Lonely, hungry dog eats chocolate. Not good for dog's digestive system. See tomorrow's bad day post for the icky results.
* Emptying dishwasher that I ran at, oh, 9:00 a.m at 5:30. Break a glass bowl all over the tile floor, sending rainbow-y fragments of glass everywhere. My daughter, in the next room, stands precariously next to one shard. In bare feet, as I am.
* I clean up the broken glass with my vacuum that does not turn on or off, but just works when plugged in. I decide to vacuum the entire first floor and slurp up an errant eraser in the family room, which spurs, oh, a small fire in the vacuum. Or at least what I discern to be a fire, but some smelly smoky stuff coming from the base. Being a reasonable person, I take a tupperware filled with water and pour it into the vacuum, ruining it for sure or at least really boosting my risk of electrocution the next time I plug it in.
* Boys are fighting non-stop, bored from staying at home on spring break when it's 30 degrees and snowy. We're supposed to go to Michigian tomorrow for a brief getaway, but guess what? Winter storm warning with 8 inches of forecast snow. Daughter can't run around in snow, as fun as that sounds, because of her asthma, and the boys will be so disappointed that they can't either, because if they go and she doesn't, she'll just stand at the window, wimpering, then wailing, then screaming, then probably gasping from her breathing issues. So that's a defnite no.
* Di d I mention I already had the vacuum out, because Tornado Toddler Girl decided to open and dump the teeny weeny pellets of fish food all over her brother's carpet? Oh, yes, nothing smells quite like fish food further ground up in a vacuum. Combine that with burning rubber and you'll get an olfactory sense of my house today.
I'm sure there's more to come in this bad day. Welcome to my world of chaos and venting. Feel better about yourself and your own life -- check back tomorrow to see how my day is going!
The best part of the day: the five minutes I spend in bed trying to read People magazine after I've put the kids down for the night, kissed them, told them how much I really do love them, tried to write an article or follow up on email after 9:00 p.m. , caught up on TV news and made a a half-hearted attempt to order the dirty dishes in the sink so I can get them in the morning.
Oh wait, I almost forgot I must take out the garbage, since it's laden with broken glass and I have a dog that likes to knock over garbage cans. I have visions of feet cut up so I gotta dash. In my world, that can be a reality in seconds flat.
WELCOME TO MY FIRST BAD DAY. In context, of course. There's always worse and, in a brief disclaimer, realize that people have all sorts of real and awful problems every day. I really am grateful for health, home and family, I just wish I had a normal life, like so many other moms, the ones with manicured nails and lawns, seem to.
BYE!
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