Where do all of the hours in my days go? Every morning I leap out of bed and happily greet the day with a cheerful hello, ready for another day of marvelous productivity, and then in a blink it’s 10pm and I still have to finish folding laundry, the dishes from dinner are untouched, I’m missing a softball sock for the games tomorrow and I just remembered that unless my dress code at work has changed to allow yoga pants, or I want to wrestle my wet from the shower self into pantyhose, I’m going to have to figure out exactly how an ironing board and iron work as there are more wrinkles in my work pants than in a 98 year old compulsive sunbather.
I always have grand ideas for what I am going to accomplish on any given day. Work out, pack a healthy lunch for myself, spend some really quality time playing trucks with JT, read a book, start all kinds of new projects at work, go for a run after I put the boy to bed, get all the dishes done, make something I saw on Pinterest, organize something and then go to bed at a decent time and get a really restful sleep.
That’s always my plan. Here’s my reality.
Alarm goes off at 545 so that I can work out before JT wakes up. I am rudely snatched from a dream about Tom Hardy saying my name in his delicious accent while he cooks me dinner wearing an apron (read that as just an apron). I slam my hand down on the snooze button and clench my eyes tightly together, willing myself back into the dream. The alarm goes off 7 minutes later and so does JT. I drag myself out of bed and go collect the boy who is at this point jumping up and down and gleefully shouts “Mommy” as I scoop him up. We go downstairs for coffee and cheerios. I turn on Minions and he sits on my feet while I do some crunches and then sits on my back for the planks and pushups. I tried doing yoga when he’s up and about and he just thinks that I’m holding out various appendages for him to hang off of.
Now it’s time to get ready. Shower and get dressed. This is an absolute roll of the dice. JT will both sit quietly and enjoy some Despicable Me minion time, or he will hunt me down, stand at the edge of the tub and wail as though he’s being forced to witness my drowning. I once made the mistake of taking him into the shower with me, having forgotten that what actually feels like wonderful hot water relaxing my muscles is in fact tiny little darts of acid to a toddler. So if I’m lucky enough that he is content while I’m showering I can get all of my showering tasks accomplished. If not, then I may be at my office with conditioner in my hair. I get dressed and then it’s time for him to get dressed. By this time he has already removed his own pajama pants and diaper and is running around blissfully naked from the waist down. His favorite state of being. I corral him and check to make sure that he hasn’t marked any new territory. I wrestle him into clothes and we argue about shoes until he wins and his favorite orange tennis shoes go on his feet. It is now 7am and it’s time to take the dog out and get the dog in and JT out to the car and be backing down the drive by 710. I have to be leaving the daycare parking lot by 722 and if his usual morning teacher is not there, I will have to allow extra time to peel his little screaming self off of my body and hand him off to whatever perfectly lovely person he’s decided is not an acceptable Mrs. Ellen stand in.
Now work is fine. I am productive and marvelous all day. I work from 730 to 5 and I’m efficient and organized and I get lots of stuffs done. But 5 o’clock strikes and it’s time to batten down the hatches.
Now, on any given night, any number of things will happen. I will leave my office at approximately 5:05 and I will need to do the following: pick up JT from daycare, stop at the store to pick up something that I am told we need for dinner, but that I’m pretty sure is on the middle shelf of the refrigerator, I drop/pick up 1 child from dance/softball/gymnastics and we arrive home. Now it is time to get dinner together, convince 3 children to eat dinner, not wear it, not throw it, and then clear the table and push in the chairs (why is it so hard to push your chairs in?). By this time it’s approaching 630 and my desire to do dishes is nonexistent. Now, I do fit in some playtime with JT and when he starts to cry when I don’t make the correct cement mixer noises I know it’s bathtime. Bathtime and JT bedtime fun ensues and by the time he has stopped asking me for “more” when I’m singing him songs and I’ve exhausted all the lyrics I know, it is about 8 and there is no way I’m getting to the Y for some weight lifting. Because odds are I have to pick up a child from dance/gymnastics/softball. I can finally sit down and breathe about 830 and try to decide what I should do next.
The laundry pile has applied to United States postal service for it’s own zip code. The dishes from dinner will take less time to wash tonight before the leftover food has adhered itself to the ceramic like industrial strength brick mortar. Gisele Bundchen is cavorting on the tv screen reminding me that it’s swimsuit season and I need to get in that second workout. Someone wants me to play monopoly. And someone else just reminded me that I was going to make cupcakes/cookies/lasagna for them to go get credit for tomorrow.
I think about all of this until about 9 and then I:
Run up and down the stairs until I am sweaty and winded then do crunches til I can’t
Tell the promiser of food that they had better get started on that project.
Throw the dishes in the dishwasher to rinse off as much as possible and then run the wash cycle. At least whatever is left on there will get sanitized by the heat.
Think about getting something new from Victoria’s Secret. Gisele wears that stuff all the time, THAT must be why she looks that hot all the time.
And call it a day.
I always have grand ideas for what I am going to accomplish on any given day. Work out, pack a healthy lunch for myself, spend some really quality time playing trucks with JT, read a book, start all kinds of new projects at work, go for a run after I put the boy to bed, get all the dishes done, make something I saw on Pinterest, organize something and then go to bed at a decent time and get a really restful sleep.
That’s always my plan. Here’s my reality.
Alarm goes off at 545 so that I can work out before JT wakes up. I am rudely snatched from a dream about Tom Hardy saying my name in his delicious accent while he cooks me dinner wearing an apron (read that as just an apron). I slam my hand down on the snooze button and clench my eyes tightly together, willing myself back into the dream. The alarm goes off 7 minutes later and so does JT. I drag myself out of bed and go collect the boy who is at this point jumping up and down and gleefully shouts “Mommy” as I scoop him up. We go downstairs for coffee and cheerios. I turn on Minions and he sits on my feet while I do some crunches and then sits on my back for the planks and pushups. I tried doing yoga when he’s up and about and he just thinks that I’m holding out various appendages for him to hang off of.
Now it’s time to get ready. Shower and get dressed. This is an absolute roll of the dice. JT will both sit quietly and enjoy some Despicable Me minion time, or he will hunt me down, stand at the edge of the tub and wail as though he’s being forced to witness my drowning. I once made the mistake of taking him into the shower with me, having forgotten that what actually feels like wonderful hot water relaxing my muscles is in fact tiny little darts of acid to a toddler. So if I’m lucky enough that he is content while I’m showering I can get all of my showering tasks accomplished. If not, then I may be at my office with conditioner in my hair. I get dressed and then it’s time for him to get dressed. By this time he has already removed his own pajama pants and diaper and is running around blissfully naked from the waist down. His favorite state of being. I corral him and check to make sure that he hasn’t marked any new territory. I wrestle him into clothes and we argue about shoes until he wins and his favorite orange tennis shoes go on his feet. It is now 7am and it’s time to take the dog out and get the dog in and JT out to the car and be backing down the drive by 710. I have to be leaving the daycare parking lot by 722 and if his usual morning teacher is not there, I will have to allow extra time to peel his little screaming self off of my body and hand him off to whatever perfectly lovely person he’s decided is not an acceptable Mrs. Ellen stand in.
Now work is fine. I am productive and marvelous all day. I work from 730 to 5 and I’m efficient and organized and I get lots of stuffs done. But 5 o’clock strikes and it’s time to batten down the hatches.
Now, on any given night, any number of things will happen. I will leave my office at approximately 5:05 and I will need to do the following: pick up JT from daycare, stop at the store to pick up something that I am told we need for dinner, but that I’m pretty sure is on the middle shelf of the refrigerator, I drop/pick up 1 child from dance/softball/gymnastics and we arrive home. Now it is time to get dinner together, convince 3 children to eat dinner, not wear it, not throw it, and then clear the table and push in the chairs (why is it so hard to push your chairs in?). By this time it’s approaching 630 and my desire to do dishes is nonexistent. Now, I do fit in some playtime with JT and when he starts to cry when I don’t make the correct cement mixer noises I know it’s bathtime. Bathtime and JT bedtime fun ensues and by the time he has stopped asking me for “more” when I’m singing him songs and I’ve exhausted all the lyrics I know, it is about 8 and there is no way I’m getting to the Y for some weight lifting. Because odds are I have to pick up a child from dance/gymnastics/softball. I can finally sit down and breathe about 830 and try to decide what I should do next.
The laundry pile has applied to United States postal service for it’s own zip code. The dishes from dinner will take less time to wash tonight before the leftover food has adhered itself to the ceramic like industrial strength brick mortar. Gisele Bundchen is cavorting on the tv screen reminding me that it’s swimsuit season and I need to get in that second workout. Someone wants me to play monopoly. And someone else just reminded me that I was going to make cupcakes/cookies/lasagna for them to go get credit for tomorrow.
I think about all of this until about 9 and then I:
Run up and down the stairs until I am sweaty and winded then do crunches til I can’t
Tell the promiser of food that they had better get started on that project.
Throw the dishes in the dishwasher to rinse off as much as possible and then run the wash cycle. At least whatever is left on there will get sanitized by the heat.
Think about getting something new from Victoria’s Secret. Gisele wears that stuff all the time, THAT must be why she looks that hot all the time.
And call it a day.
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