Friday, April 11, 2014

Why I Get Nothing Done As a Stay At Home Mom

Yesterday I made a flippant comment about moons aligning. . . . it was a pointed comment about me wanting to attend a favorite work out class-- regardless, I was excited for this little opportunity and even put on CLEAN yoga pants for this thrilling adventure in the life of Dana Fitzpatrick.

Well, friends.  Let's just say-- don't get arrogant with the fates.

I have written before that life in Ketchikan has been more deliberate, a little slower and certainly more logistically challenging than I imagined.  What I failed to mention is that shit just seems to go wrong more often than it should.

This isn't a Ketchikan thing-- probably more of a Dana thing* but that's neither here nor there.

Let me tell you about how my afternoon went:** 

I have been feeling a little groggy this week and the weather was supporting this mood.  When the sun was shining bright this morning I got excited about all sorts of excitement- including wearing sunglasses and grooving in the car as I ran errands.

When I say grooving, I am not talking about Raffi or Disney Pandora-- I mean straight up cheesy crap- John Hiatt, John Melencamp, John Fogerty or any other crazy John- shit I could dig up.  I was seriously in the mood for a little sun and some me-time.

I had big plans-- getting water, going to the grocery store and hitting up Body Pump.  These aren't sexy plans- but it's the best I can do right now.

All was well, until I got a call while at Safeway saying there was an 'accident' at the pre-school.

One of our kids (anonymous naturally but it's not rocket science.) had an accident.  This kid had been constipated for over a week and we had started to get a little aggressive with the treatments-- pear juice, raisins, ground flax-seed and even miralax.  If you had peered into my grocery cart, you would have found suppositories because it was time for the big guns.

Of course, I made the very intelligent decision last week to stop carrying extra clothes for this kid since we haven't had an accident in over a year and I had started to think about how to fit the unique needs of four kids into one diaper bag.  Naturally this kid could handle the graduation out of the bag.

Except he couldn't- because although he was seriously backed up,  he was also full of fiber and laxatives.  Insert obvious predicament.  This kid is at day care with no bottom half clothing to wear and Body Pump is in 15. 

I quickly checked out and started a quick trip to Walmart which is the closest place to get clothes for a little guy.  I imagined a very sad and possibly embarrassed little boy so I picked out some clothes that I thought were coolish including Star Wars undies and hauled ass back to the day care-- all said, this took 45 minutes to get from one store to the other and to the day care.  All the time this kid is nakey and I am feeling pretty oafish for taking his back- up clothes away last week.

Once I arrived at the center the situation was better than I anticipated-- we were thrilled with the arrival of Star Wars undies and didn't seem incredibly phased about hanging out nakey in a bathroom for 45 minutes.  In fact, we were eager to tell us all the dynamics and descriptors of  the poo-lacapyse.   The other two sucked in a variety of different ways but I was glad there didn't seem to be any permanent damage done to the psyche of this kid.  Daisy is wearing different clothes than she came in-- but I am dealing with poo and two crying, so this flies under the radar as to what actually happened.  I take two bags of dirty clothes, three whiny kids and load back into the mini-van. 


So onward home we go, no moons aligning for Body Pump.  I get home after listening to Daisy and James battle back and forth over the volume of Disney Pandora-- Louder, turn it down, louder, turn it down.  We arrive home-- sun still shining, but my attitude a little more "partly-sunny."

Once home, we find that Osa has decided to empty our trash onto the kitchen floor for the third time this week-- only this time it's almost entirely diapers and coffee grounds.  I spend 20 minutes cleaning this up-- and think, well heck if I am going to be cleaning up in the kitchen- how about I make some risotto since I'll be right there to stir it.  Lemonade man, lemonade.

Risotto made, kitchen cleaned I am thinking positive things-- until dinner, when Daisy throws an absolute hissy-fit about how she doesn't want dinner, she wants to watch Frozen.  James decides to borrow her phrase of  "I don't wanna" to see if it will be as effective.  I ignore them and step over Daisy's rolling back and forth as I think happy thoughts.  I will win this war if it kills me.

In the meantime, Simon,  our consummate cup surfer moves over to James' big boy cup (no lid) and takes a big gulp and sneezes at the exact same time and spews milk all over himself and the plates of the other kids-thus ruining the awesome risotto.

Everyone's crying at this point- wet Simon, Daisy who's still rolling back and forth over the fact that I. Am. Making. Her. Eat. Food. *** and James who is literally crying over spilled milk.





And I paid for this awesomeness.  Four should be a walk in the park.







*According to Facebook ads,  I can get a t-shirt that proves you won''t understand.
**But first, two things to note. 1) This involves over-sharing on a couple fronts.  Either stop reading or have faith that we are saving plenty for future therapy for all members of the Fitz family.  2.) I paid for day care to go to my exciting class-- so not only did life not happen that way-- I paid a hefty hourly rate to NOT have fun.
*** How dare I try to feed her. 

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