It's Friday. Fridays are special days here because they have been designated “Mama's Day of Fulfillment.” Martin doesn't work on Fridays, and we've arranged a nice routine where he takes the girls someplace for awhile during the day so that I can work on my music stuff, write, record, etc. It's a nice way for us to take advantage of what is actually not an ideal situation—we wish he were working on Fridays, but it is what it is, and I can't complain about having time to myself.
Originally, the plan was that I would have the entire day to myself. (Ha! Laughable!) After the first Friday of this deal, we quickly learned the complete ridiculousness of that statement. The day has since been amended to be about two hours of time for myself, and it works out well that way. Over the past few months I've used that time to get a lot of recording done, as well as starting this blog up again. But somehow, every week, this simple plan proves to be almost impossible. Since it's fresh in my mind, I'll just recap this morning.
Somebody is in my bed. She is awake and very wiggly and getting kind of loud. She's not going back to sleep. The person in the toddler bed next to me is being woken up by her. Awesome.
I have moved to the toddler bed with the two year old and the four year old. It's crammed and I have to keep my arms above my head due to where they are situated, but I * think * they are both asleep.
I realize there have been two kids fighting over me for awhile and begging me to get up. “When will it be day?” “When can we wake up daddy?” “I have to go pee pee!” “I have to go pee pee, too!” Take both girls to the bathroom where I realize they don't have any intention of going back to bed, no matter how good I make it sound.
Wake Martin, hand him the reigns. Go back to bed.
I get up and send Martin back to bed. Kids are insane. Candy Land is everywhere. They've already eaten two breakfasts. We're almost out of milk. They just keep laughing and zipping around and asking me to do stuff for them or with them and where is my brain and where is my coffee?
Two big girls wake up. Greta's daily drama of getting dressed goes down relatively smoothly, although she gets mad about not having the perfect shirt so she yells that she's going to wear “stinky dirty underwear.” Anja is in a surprisingly good mood and continues on her sewing project from yesterday. Get out the second half of yesterday's watermelon for breakfast. Nobody wants it after Ingrid spits her seeds back into the main bowl instead of into the “spit bowl.” Ingrid is also anti-spoon. She will need a change of clothes and a bath.
How many breakfasts does one family need? I take a shower and wake up Martin, get the homeschool day moving. Three kids are fully clothed, a miracle! Martin is eager to get them out the door for their fishing trip. I tell him to quickly run his errands first while we do school.
Martin leaves to run errands. Homeschool starts well. I make mental note of how many times I've washed the same bowls just this morning and my count so far is 4. Spoons too. Math takes a downward turn; Greta cries. She begs me to make hot chocolate and tells me subtraction is horrid. She isn't throwing her math book though, so that's a plus for today.
There is “a smell.” Greta and I search the house (which, in the course of the morning has come to look like a victim of some horrific straight-line winds) for dog poo-poo, but find none. Greta becomes hysterical. She makes a face mask out of a washcloth and toilet paper, but I can still hear her sobs through it.
We've learned about the Liberty Bell, the real Plymouth Rock and have sung the National Anthem, all punctuated by Elka and Ingrid asking completely unrelated questions like, “how do I color the fish?” and “How do I color the ball?” and “Where is my [very specific and no other will do] orange marker?” The mystery smell is still present.
Must make lunch! Plan on mashed potatoes and HALLELUJAH, find the smell in the potato basket! Martin arrives home from errands, shocked to find the girls not ready to go fishing and Elka still naked. Serious hunger meltdowns are happening. (How?!? THEY JUST ATE.) I find yesterdays' lunch in the fridge and warm it up instead of bothering with potatoes.
Martin is taking the girls fishing, dammit. Three girls are excited. Greta is not. Greta doesn't like the way her sandals feel today. Tears. She wants to wear her Friday socks, but we can't find them. More tears. After thorough search of the house, I remember that the Friday socks are in the dryer... but the load is still damp. HYSTERIA. Greta says she hates fishing and hates her Friday socks and hates everything. (Actually she only says, “don't like” because somewhere during their short life, the girls have gotten it in their heads that “hate” is a bad word and we aren't allowed to use it.) I realize that nobody actually ate their lunch because they were writing stories. Quickly peel and slice four apples and grab a sleeve of graham crackers for their fishing trip snack. Hugs and kisses, and they are on their way, with Greta hollering out the window as they drive away that she promises she WILL NOT HAVE A GOOD TIME AT ALL.
Everyone gone. The house is quiet. I have so much cleaning up to do. School books everywhere. Lunch everywhere. Rain clouds of parmesan cheese must have moved through the kitchen when I wasn't looking. I know the litter boxes upstairs need changing but I am seriously afraid of going up there because, even though I cleaned up the toys yesterday, today it is again begging to be declared a federal disaster zone. Pick up some scattered Little People toys. Decide it's better outside where I can't see the mess, and move my workings to the porch for the afternoon. Begin this blog post and wonder if Greta is having fun fishing.
I bet she is.