7/25/08

You Know You're Tired When

It has been nearly 6 weeks of 7 days/week duty. The soldiers are tired, the natives restless, and Chief Bread Winner is cranky, as is his overworked, suddenly snippy partner, Long in the Face & Chest.
I don't know how, or if, I ever mentally prepared myself for the life John proposed when he began this weekend business in addition to his 5 days/week career. But, having survived the past 6 weeks (barely), I can quite honestly call to mind happier, more carefree days exactly 6 weeks ago. We certainly did not relish in our weekend family time enough.
The past two days have been particularly taxing on us girls. We've ridden the Disneyland wave, lassoed the Bottle Fairy into submission and now we are standing on the brink of anticipation, searching the distant horizon for the next entertaining phenomenon to wash over us. Am I sinking? Did I position the mountainous climax of our summer too soon in this journey? We're slip sliding downhill fast with the heaviest work season soon approaching. It's sure to get terribly worse before things improve. Momma needs to pull a rabbit out of her hat, or a battery powered Pink Barbie Corvette out of her car. Whateva!
Returning home from a jam packed, 5 hour playdate at the park and the beach, we returned home for snack and then mommy needed mommy time. I plugged in my children to the Barbie Rapunzel DVD, set up paints for Shelby and pulled down a basket of entertainment for Ana. The moment their eyes showed the slightest signs of glazing over, I slipped out the back door to play the piano (something else you may not know about me). Auughh, silence is golden. Not five minutes passed before I was joined by Shelby pounding out her duet on the upper register. THIS-IS-MOMMY-TIME. Ana crawled into the room, under, the piano and managed to lift herself into a standing position before realizing she couldn't actually stand up beneath the piano. So she gripped the bench with both hands, stiffened her tiny body into plank position and pressed her head forcefully against the underbelly of my piano while simultaneously shrieking her best prehistoric pterodactyl scream. Augh, glorious mommy time. ..
I closed my eyes and searched inside my pounding head for a happy place in which to fling my withered self but nothing came to mind.
"Alright already!" I said, dislodging my shrieking baby from beneath the piano and giving Shelby the most serious glare I could muster.
"Mommy, can I have some milk, please?"
"If it will buy me three more minutes of peace and quiet, then yes," I muttered, stomping off toward the kitchen with Ana clamped around my middle.
Awkward as it was, I leaned down to reach a cup from the "kids' drawer" while shifting Ana toward my back to maintain balance with my other arm. Spinning around, I slung open the fridge and caught the door with my foot. Ana was pulling my hair and pressing her fingernails (those need to be clipped) into my lip. I could hear Shelby yelling, "Mommmmyyyyy! Milk pleeeeeaasseeee!!" at the top of her lungs.
When the glass was half full (exhibit: my last strand of optimism=The Glass Is Half Full), I screwed the cap back on the milk, again one-handed, and turned to face the still open fridge. I then dislodged Ana from my hip and moved toward the refrigerator to deposit my infant onto the bottom shelf (next to the orange juice, beneath the eggs) and sling the milk carton onto my hip. WHOAH!!!!
What is happening to me? Where's the Calgon (or the Men in White Coats)? Take me away!!!

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