Just to expand on how totally glamorous our life is, I thought I’d provide you with a brief snapshot of what a morning in the Feldmann household is like. In particular, this very morning.
Blair enters our room and claims she had a “bad dream” (further investigation into this “bad dream” later this morning led to a discovery that she is a little liar. Her “bad dream” was that we didn’t have any more pink gum. Which, actually, is true now that I think about it). Since her daddy is traveling, all willpower I have to get her back into her own bed is out the window. And, by that, I mean that since Derrick is gone, there is literally no one here that is willing to get out of bed and take her back to her own room. The coffeemaker isn’t set to start for another hour. Climb on in, Blair.
5:16 – 5:45 am
Blair asks me when she can have her milk. Not incessantly – only every 3 seconds or so. And not annoyingly, only in the whiniest (and yet somehow aggressive) voice ever. When I tell her we will go down in a little bit, she says, “no, Mama. YOU will go down in a little bit. I will stay warm in you bed.” Let’s be honest – she’s probably not wrong*.
(*See: Derrick is traveling and my spirit is broken, rendering willpower obsolete.)
Paige enters the room, asking when exactly it will be time for her clock to turn yellow. Thereby letting her know it’s okay to come into our room. The irony of this question seems to be lost only on the little people in this house. I send her back to her room with the threat of no technology when she “wakes up.” She scampers out
yelling pondering about how unfair life is because she has to go back to her own room and Blair gets to stay in bed with me. I agree – it’s not at all fair. I also feel that if Paige used her head and didn’t obey quite so easily, she too could reap the rewards of being a defiant child in a house with a mother who hates mornings … especially cold ones. I’m just sayin’.
Shhhhh … I’m trying to sleep. It’s blissfully quiet.
The cat begins to puke in the corner, and the dog gets up to investigate (aka, probably eat the puke. It’s gross, I know – but it’s one less thing I’ll have to clean up. I may or may not encourage this behavior.).
Blair demands milk loudly, I put on my slippers to go downstairs
to escape to get the calcium-rich milk that will fortify my sweet daughter. And to start the coffee. I swear, I don’t even know why we have an Auto-Program mode on that thing. We never make it to 6:15 am.
5:50 – 7:45 am
The rest of the morning is a blur of trying to get Paige ready for school and finish her homework (that I discovered this morning while emptying her backpack. Don’t judge – I’m not the one in school! How the hell am I supposed to remember to empty a backpack every day?!? It’s not MY backpack!).
I break up 3 fights, and remind Blair twice that Paige actually is still her sister, and that saying she’s not doesn’t simply make it true.
I curse the dog for having to go out TWICE (it’s 6 degrees outside! You’re almost 9 years old! Can’t you get it all out at once?!?).
I switch the laundry. Two times. And silently vow to find whoever it is that comes into our house every day, removes all the clean clothes from our closets, and puts them back into our hampers. Seriously. Who the HELL is wearing all these clothes???
I beg, plead and bribe kids into coats and boots, and then the car. I realize on the way to school that I have no purse or phone, and pray something doesn’t happen because Blair and I are still in our pajamas. And I’m not wearing a bra.
I answer questions about swear words on the radio (damn you, Sirius XM!), and after switching the channel answer questions about how Taylor Swift will “make a good boy bad for the weekend.”
I pour myself another large mug of coffee, and make Blair her second breakfast of the day. Ugh – I swear I feel like I’m feeding these kids at least every day.
I switch the laundry.
8:05 – 10:45 am
I remind Blair that our cat is old, and that she does NOT like to be “squished.”
I remind Blair that our dog has epilepsy, does NOT like to have a flashlight shined in his eyes, and is most definitely NOT a stepstool.
I switch the laundry.
I continue a ridiculous project of ironing the slip covers to our couch. Yes, we have a white couch. And yes, it usually works well for us because I occasionally have to pull off a cushion cover and wash it. However, said couch needed a complete washing after: 1) Christmas time; 2) a birthday party for a 6-year-old; 3) a brief moment of “unsupervised (and unapproved) coloring” for Blair; 4) an a-hole, 80 pound dog who thinks the couch is his cozy bed. When his paws are muddy. And I’m still in the freaking room. (Jerk. I swear, if this happens again there will be a golden doodle-shaped rug in our living room instead of a dog.). I started this project on Monday. Today is Thursday.
I amuse Blair with her new toothbrush, toothpaste and floss from the dentist yesterday. Which lasts for about 3 minutes.
I finally turn on the TV for her – RELAX, y’all! It’s PBS Kids! I mean, how else am I supposed to be able to hear ‘The Bachelor’ while I iron these blasted slip covers? She’s LEARNING!
I switch the laundry.
I snap this picture.
I realized I need to actively engage as a parent for a few minutes.
I decide this means I need to put on a bra.
G. L. A. M. O. R. O. U. S.