So finally, I've set aside my work (which I sometimes spend far too much late night "me" time on), I've carved out a little niche of time so I can delight you all with my inner musings (and by delight you all, I mean so this stressed out mom can get some real life things off her chest.)
It's almost October. I still don't really know how that happened. It seems like just a few weeks ago the kids were dragging me to the pool we joined; I was sitting on my yellow softball bucket calling pitches; we were at Disneyworld living an adult hell.
And all the sudden -- I blink -- and it's the end of September. And the end of September means it was time for my husband's work to have their two-day convention. That means two days of full-blown only mommy parenting the kids, trying not to damage their fragile little psyches while hiding the fact that I'm basically losing my shit.
And so last night, at 10:11 p.m., when both my sweet bundles of joy closed their very heavy eyelids, rested their sugar-addled bodies on my legs and chest, I finally sighed in relief ... well, that or sheer amazement that I didn't pull all my hair out.
Cause, I mean, who gets hungry at dinner time, right? That shit is for the birds (or adults, rational people and basically not any child ever).
The thing that makes this difficult is my husband. He's a keeper that's for sure. And because we don't adhere to those gender stereotypes of what a mom and dad should do, when one of us is gone, the other one feels it. Like, a lot.
With that being said, here are the four things I've learned while my husband has been at his convention.
I am literally the messiest human being alive
I mean seriously, guys, by the time the night was over there were at least eight paper plates dotting the living room couch, floor, table, fireplace mantle (keep in mind only three of us ate one meal ... so I'm not sure where the other five plates mysteriously came from), there were five juice boxes lining our living room table alone, toys here, toys there, toys everywhere, and don't even get me started on the kitchen. I didn't even COOK and there were vegan cheese wrappers decorating the counter like I just hosted a party for 20 small vegan children, 10 empty kids cups and to make matters worse, I'm pretty sure I fed our dog cat food.
So I think it's safe to say my husband DID NOT marry me for my housekeeping or wife skills. Hell, he's lucky if I remember to make the bed in the day.
Bath time with one parent means nakedness everywhere
So I'm normally in charge of bath time for the kiddos, which is totes fine with me because it gives me a chance to read some trashy teen vampire novels or play some Candy Crush. Usually I do all the cleaning and hair washing of said children and then when they get out it's daddy's problem to wrangle the wild beasts and attempt to clothe them. We don't bother to dry them, that would take too much of their precious time away from picking their noses and making fart jokes, so instead we throw giant t-shirts on them, call it pajamas and let them air dry.
But when there's only one parent for bath time, that means once I get one child out, they wander the house in total nakedness while I finish washing the other. Which would be fine, if I didn't have to hear my daughter ask why the dog keeps trying to lick her bare ass all while comforting my son who is convinced I'm trying to poison him when I attempt to wash his hair. And then, once he's out of the tub it's basically a naked free for all, which includes blocking my son in a room so he can't streak through the house and slip on the wood floors, while trying to put my daughters "favorite" pajamas on from when she was three, because you know, they still fit now that she's SIX.
I lose my shit a lot less when my husband is home
And it's not just because someone is there so I'm on my best behavior, oh no. I would lose my shit a lot less if Mary Sue Ellen from across the street was there with me, ya know why? Because someone else is in the trenches with me. I mean sure, I certainly prefer my husband to be the one waging toothbrushing and technology-restricting battles with me, but ultimately, I'll take any semi-living, breathing human being at this point, just SOMEONE. Someone to see that I'm on the edge of losing my shit and give me that look, you know, the one that says "I'm going to lose mine too, so let's not and we'll be in this together."
I could do it by myself, but I never, ever want to
It's true, life is better when you're together. Today marks my last day that I'll be without my husband in our humble abode, and while it's been secretly kind of nice to have them all to myself, I can't wait for him to walk through the door late tonight and resume his role in our family bed as the heat source for my daughter and son.
And sure, it was fun to order pizza for dinner and give zero fucks about planning anything out, but I'm pretty sure I'd eventually get tired of vegan pizza and my children would revolt and fashion some sort of shooting device out of their pizza crusts with their leftover black olives.
At the end of the two days, I made it through my one-on-two time with my kiddos. I mean sure, the dogs may be dehydrated and the floors might be a lot stickier than when my husband left, but we're all alive and unscathed as far as I can tell. Except for Silver, our cat. He's seen far too much nakedness and I think we might have scarred his one working eye.
But ya know, that shit happens.
When daddy goes away, everybody gives up something ... a small piece of their soul, the gift of eyesight ... clothes ...
You may also like:
Squashing unhealthy views on motherhood
Let's stop the parent bashing