January 3, 2012

A Day In The Life Of: 2012

Leslie reminded me a few weeks ago that it's been almost a whole year since the A Day In The Life Of post, and - as you know - my days have changed some. Let's revisit, shall we? Leslie's going to do it too, and guess what?

So are you.

Pick a day, write it down, and send it to me. That's an order. (Don't mess with me, I've had a bad day.)

* * *

Thursday, December 29th
Part One: In which things start out bad, but seem to get better

The alarm clock goes off at six, like it's supposed to, but because someone under three feet tall was playing with it, the volume is too low to wake me up. Mr wakes me up at 6:27 and I stumble to the bathroom.

As I'm sittig on the toilet, I hear Miss come to the door and try to come in (which is why it's locked). I tell her to ask Daddy to take her downstairs if she needs to go. This makes her pound on the door harder until, eventually, she pees her pants, which is obviously way better than going downstairs to pee on the toilet.

Cleaning her up and making her feel better eats up another ten minutes, and when we're all finally showered and downstairs it's already a few minutes after seven, which means cereal instead of oatmeal for breakfast. I change Jr's bum and get both kids dressed while Mr starts the coffee and gets breakfast on the table.

The cereal saves us enough time that we're brushing our teeth about the same time we do every morning, and Mr heads out to clean the snow off the van and get it warmed up by about quarter to eight. I'm thinking that despite the bad beginning, things are back on track.

Part Two: In which I realize I'm very, very wrong

I start to worry a little when Mr isn't back in after five minutes, but start to wrestle the kids into their jackets, boots, mittens, and hats anyway. (I. Hate. Winter.) Mr comes back inside and throws his gloves angrily to the floor.

The van doors - which have been freezing up on us nearly every morning - did not freeze this morning. This is not reason to celebrate, as they have instead chosen not to latch. No big deal, Mr will take the kids to school in the truck, and then come back to drive me to work.

Or not. The truck refuses to start.

I realize that I'm very, very wrong.

We're fortunate to live only three minutes down the road from my parents, and once again we take shameless advantage of our proximity and ask Dad to rescue us. He does.

I finally get to work a half hour late, after a complicated fox/chicken/grain/farmer/boat scenario in which Dad drives us all to school, we drive him home, and Mr drives me to work.

Part Three: In which I work

Part Four: In which I stoop to a level I wasn't quite sure existed

Mr pickes me up at five. I am extremely grateful. It turns out that the van dors WERE frozen. Frozen open. On the way home, we discuss what we're having for dinner, since the pork tenderloin sandwiches we were going to have require some afternoon work that Mr didn't have time to do, what with driving all over creation in assorted vehicles in various states of deep freeze. Just as we get to the point where we realize that we're going to have to buy something, we drive past this sign:

Against all reason we listen to the Colonel, and after picking the kids up from school we swing back to KFC and buy the infernal bowls.

Part Five: In which we have a few moments of normal

We finally get in the door, wrestle the kids out of their jackets, boots, mittens and hats (did I mention that I. Hate. Winter?) and sit down to "supper" by six. The kids eat their "food" - Miss is excited by the discovery of corn in her bowl, and Jr eats only the "chicken".

We decide that the kids need we need the kids to go to bed early, so by quarter to seven they're in their jammies, teeth brushed, all storied up, and ready to be tucked in. Jr hands out sloppy kisses and tight sqeezes (no, the "u" was not omitted by accident), and is zipped up into his sleeping bag and put down. He cries for his nimmie about the same amount of time as it takes to close his door behind him and walk down the hall.

Miss has a slightly more complicated bedtime routine. Mr is already halfway down the list of twenty required questions (with answers that never change): "Do you want your ladybug on or off?", "Do you want your blankie tucked in or beside you?", "tucked in Grammy way or Mommy way?". The last bit is my favourite, and I get to her room just in time for it. We stand at the door, turn out the lights, and as I start to close the door (it's always Mommy's turn, for some reason), she sits back up in bed and lets loose with the following string of instructions:


It's expanded a little in the past year.

Part Six: In which I am punished and want to die

I spend the evening lying on the couch, most decidedly NOT writing a blog post (sorry), and regretting the bowl decision most sincerely. Mr makes me the perfect evening snack: Gravol and ice cubes, and I figure if I'm going to suffer, I'd like to do it in my sleep. I spend the next two hours in bed but not asleep, enjoying the pleasures of acid reflux and trying not to throw up in my mouth.