Where the heck does my time go?! I feel like I’m constantly on the hamster wheel, working nonstop, but never getting anything done. In an effort to assess where my time goes, I decided to write out a typical day in my life:
5:30 a.m.
Wake up to Max’s cries. Nurse. Put Max back in bed. Get in shower.
6-7
Get ready. Tag team breakfast with Ryan. Try to remember to move wet laundry to dryer. Put supper meat in fridge to thaw.
7-3:30
Drop off kids. Work.
3:30-4:45
Try to get caught up in classroom. Feel guilty about not picking up kids earlier.
OR Pick up kids. Feel stressed about work left in classroom (or being drug home in teacher bag).
4:45-5:30
Cook supper and feel guilty about not playing outside with kids
OR Play outside with kids and feel guilty about not cooking a “real meal.”
5:30-7
Feed Max. Try to keep food warm while we wait for Daddy. Eat. Start to
clean up supper mess. Get interrupted by Max wanting to nurse. Nurse. Put Max down.
7-8
Choreograph the seven-ring circus that is bedtime: shower, teeth, toys,
jammies, story, song. Try to put in a load of laundry and finish cleaning up kitchen in there somewhere.
8-8:30
On a good night: iron tomorrow’s clothes and load coffee maker for the
morning.
On most nights: finish bed-time routine.
8:30+
Finish kitchen clean-up. Finish morning prep. Fold laundry. Straighten house. Pay bills. Grade papers. Feel guilty about not spending time with Ryan
OR Watch TV with Ryan and fall asleep within 20 mn, feeling stressed by the messy house and pile of papers
OR if Ryan falls asleep on couch, facebook and/or blog stalk until 1 a.m., with homework assignments and red pen on lap to ease the guilt of wasting an entire evening (and to pass the time between slow page loads)
11 (or whenever Ryan or I wake up off the couch)
go to bed
Sigh…
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Potty Police
I’ve created monsters. And my family has given them teeth. It started innocently enough—a mommy just trying to teach etiquette, tact, and what not to say in front of anyone who might judge her parenting skills. So, when the big boys were probably two and four, after a giggle fest started by the word “butt” I introduced them to the term “potty humor” and pointed out examples of it and explained how they were inappropriate. It was fun at first, but I should’ve known they boys would take it a little too far. In the year or so since my little teachable moment, I’ve been reprimanded for the following:
- Asking if someone did a good job wiping their butt (we prefer “booty”)
- Telling the big boys that I’m busy changing Max’s poopy diaper
- Reading Little Toot
- Giving explicit instructions on what to move where so I could do a thorough, yet hands-free tick check
- Cheering for one of Ryan’s cross country runners to get a P.R. (personal record, or apparently, urine)
The potty police took a donut break for a few months until our last road trip. Daddy had to stay home for a meet, so my sister and her fiancé rode along. Aunt Tavia, for all her wonderful ways with children and expertise in the latest early childhood philosophies, still doesn’t understand this about my boys: If it’s funny the first time, it’s even funnier the 10,000th time! She decided to give the potty patrol weapons to aid their enforcement – the head slap. For eleven hours, we had to endure not only constant potty-monitoring, but also bow to head slaps after each offending comment. Thank goodness for seatbelts and car seats. And once we reached our destination, what Tavia started and the boys multiplied, my brother took to exponential levels, in true Uncle Trey style. The boys got a taste of their own medicine, getting baited, and then whacked for saying “but I…” or for finishing the alphabet song (L, M, N, O, what?)
In the month since this road trip, I got tired of the random slaps out of nowhere, so we added the self-discipline clause. If you slap your own head first, no one can potty whack you. Not sure that was a good plan. Last night, Reed said of his brother, “Calvin smells like a (pause for anticipatory giggle and whack to his own head) poopy butt turd.” Looks I’m the only one who learned a lesson here.
- Asking if someone did a good job wiping their butt (we prefer “booty”)
- Telling the big boys that I’m busy changing Max’s poopy diaper
- Reading Little Toot
- Giving explicit instructions on what to move where so I could do a thorough, yet hands-free tick check
- Cheering for one of Ryan’s cross country runners to get a P.R. (personal record, or apparently, urine)
The potty police took a donut break for a few months until our last road trip. Daddy had to stay home for a meet, so my sister and her fiancé rode along. Aunt Tavia, for all her wonderful ways with children and expertise in the latest early childhood philosophies, still doesn’t understand this about my boys: If it’s funny the first time, it’s even funnier the 10,000th time! She decided to give the potty patrol weapons to aid their enforcement – the head slap. For eleven hours, we had to endure not only constant potty-monitoring, but also bow to head slaps after each offending comment. Thank goodness for seatbelts and car seats. And once we reached our destination, what Tavia started and the boys multiplied, my brother took to exponential levels, in true Uncle Trey style. The boys got a taste of their own medicine, getting baited, and then whacked for saying “but I…” or for finishing the alphabet song (L, M, N, O, what?)
In the month since this road trip, I got tired of the random slaps out of nowhere, so we added the self-discipline clause. If you slap your own head first, no one can potty whack you. Not sure that was a good plan. Last night, Reed said of his brother, “Calvin smells like a (pause for anticipatory giggle and whack to his own head) poopy butt turd.” Looks I’m the only one who learned a lesson here.
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