I am tired. I mean really, really tired. Brain tired. My body feels fine. Work is busy, I'm juggling several freelance writing jobs, and that other little gig...parenting...is just wearing me out.
Last night was awful. Someone (maybe me?) left the refrigerator door open all day, so I came home to warm milk, melted butter, and murky organic yogurt. I had to clean up that mess, squeeze in a work out (lest I kill someone as a result of pent up aggression from my stressful day at work), hit the grocery to replenish the spoiled food, and pick the kids up from daycare -- all before 6 pm! Mission accomplished--I managed to get it all done and was feeling quite accomplished...then the chaos ensued.
Max refused to eat dinner. He threw his food and milk on the floor. The sippy cup exploded sending shrapnel's of milk everywhere (mostly on the dog who just got bathed and groomed on Tuesday). Abby (for once) ate all of her dinner, but promptly threw up all over the table. Paul had to work until 9, so I was ALL alone....all alone. So very alone.
I snapped. I confess, it was another bad parenting moment. It just came out of me.
It was loud, too.
When I snapped out of my altered state, both kids were silently staring at me.
Mop in one hand, vomit in the other, I continued cleaning. Both kids remained quiet. Each eventually went off to different areas and silently engaged themselves in a low-profile activity of some sort.
Cleaning helped me regroup. I pulled it together. Soon, it was bath time.
"Let's go wash away the day, guys," I cheerfully stated.
Both kids ambled up the stairs, still quiet.
Bath run, bubbles in, and eventually the house filled with giggles again.