Whew. Mr. bodypoet has worked, since Wednesday at 7:00 p.m., 3 twelve-hour shifts, which is the norm. However, he has ALSO, against the wise advice of both his lovely wife and his competent marriage counselor, worked about 15 hours of overtime.
So he has worked, come home, slept, and gone back to work any number of times since Thursday night. He’s in the bedroom now, sleeping. Or dead, I’m not sure. Hopefully, sleeping, because I need a break.
The older boys went to their dad’s for the weekend, so the babies and I have been hanging out by ourselves since Friday evening. (Can it be only yesterday? It seems so long, long ago.)
This morning, we all got up at 4:30, because they have to go on the paper route with me when their older brothers are gone. (Once every two weeks only, thank goodness.) Nothing more fun than delivering a hundred or so papers–in the rain, whoohoo!–with a 3 year old kicking the back of your seat and asking, every 4.5 seconds, “We go home now? Tanner go HOME?”
Now, just for the record, I’ve been a good and patient mommy. And just for the record, I am very glad that I don’t have to parent all alone all the time, because it would quite likely drive me bats. I do great until, oh, about day 3 or 4. All of a sudden, I realize that the clean AND dirty laundry is strewn all over the floor, there is macaroni and cheese permanently adhering to the coffee table, the baby has learned to boot up the computer, the cat is sick again, the dog water is now full of dog food (courtesy of said baby), it’s jhot in here, and something–or someone–stinks. That’s when I hit the wall*, throw up my hands, and try to decide what to do with my life:
A. Run away? You know they would find me. They would–just the way they do every time I sneak into the bathroom to try to pee in peace, and they come knocking on the door. If I ever disappear in the Adirondacks or something, just tell my kids “Mommy needs some private time,” and they’ll find me before I can even exhaust my emergency chocolate rations.
B. Lock 'em outside? They would get fingerprints all over the windows and run the car battery down playing with the lights.
C. Lock MYSELF outside? Last time I walked out of the room, I returned to find my son talking to the operator, who was inquiring kindly if he required an ambulance? And you can just bet that no one is going to pick up all this laundry before I come back.
So, obviously, the only choice is to drink some orange juice with just a tad of pineapple rum, wake up Mr bodypoet (assuming he isn’t dead), and take a long, hot bath. With the door locked, and maybe some ear plugs in. And an emergency ration of chocolate.
sigh Anyone for some peace and quiet?
*figuratively, not literally. Otherwise, I couldn’t type.