Is free lunch still a bargain if it makes you sick enough that you have to leave work early?
Even I (the bargain queen) don’t think so.
The kids are eating cereal directly out of the boxes in front of the television. If you must call CPS, could you ask them to bring some ginger ale? Thanks.
Yes yes… I know… for you, dear readers, there was never a departure from boring. Ever since I started working again, a huge percentage of my life has become Off Limits as blog fodder; hence my entries have become rarer, less interesting, and decidedly more cheerful, which–as we all know–results in way less of The Funny. But it turns out that for me this weekend’s visit from my father and stepmom was a welcome departure from boring, and as they have now headed home, it’s back to Regular Life here at Casa Mir.
[Except for this brief non-sequitor: I had a most entertaining IM conversation this afternoon which turned to the topic of breasts (of course). As my discussion partner is male and I love to get the Y chromosome view of things, I asked him if he subscribed to the "more than a handful's wasted" theory of boobage, to which he responded that "they're sort of like saran wrap... once you have enough for the task at hand, figuring out how to deal with the extra is sort of tricky." I laughed so hard my children thought I was having a seizure. And I may be paraphrasing badly and he can correct me if he so wishes.]
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Hey, the kids are still alive, I still have a job, AND I got to have Chinese food last night.
In addition, I made it in to work for half a day, Monkey is somewhat better (must have been that single ounce of juice working its curative power), and my parents are here visiting and buying Chinese food and entertaining my children and having actual mealtime conversations with me that do not involve 1) burping, 2) discussing the relative merits of the different skills of the Teen Titans, or 3) declaring that they will not go to sleep and I can’t make them, so there.
So life is pretty good.
Soon we will head down to Trader Joe’s to buy yet more food, because lord knows we haven’t had enough to eat yet, plus you can buy so many wondrous things there. I may experience an avocado overdose, and I may not even care. Woo!
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Excuse me while I curl up into a little ball of stress and explode. Ahhhh… that’s better. In the sense that discorporeal is better, at this point.
Now would be a good time for the New York Times or Newsweek or some other news organization eager to let you know that “THIS JUST IN: Being a Mom Means You Are Conflicted” to come talk to me.
Let’s review the numbers, shall we?
How long I’ve been at my new job: 3 weeks
Number of hours left before the person I’m going to cover for leaves on vacation: 7
Time I showed up at work yesterday with a sick child in tow: 7:40
Number of videos I’d brought to entertain child: 6
Time my boss ordered us to go home: 8:10
Time I returned to work after transferring sick kid to his father: 1:20
Time it became apparent this morning that said kid was still unwell: 6:12
Number of hours school was delayed this morning: 2
Number of times I yelled during those 2 hours: *this number censored*
Number of times I have so far today hyperventilated over the thought of not making it in to the office: 2
Number of work emails I’ve received so far this morning: 19
Number of times I have offered a juice box to the sick child, because fluid! is good! and makes you better!: 5
Ounces of juice he has consumed: 1
Number of schemes I have so far devised to get in to the office today: 6
Number of those schemes which are feasible: 1. Maybe.
Number of times I’ve wondered how the heck single parents work full time: eleventy billion
(I’ll try to get them to do it again when you’re here tomorrow, but who knows.)
My children, my darling, sweet, adorable, totally WEIRD children, are wearing footie sleepers in preparation for an early bedtime. They just came walking in here, single-file, with their sleepers unzipped and pooled around their ankles. They shuffled and bounced like penguins on methamphetamines as they took turns declaring “WALK THIS WAY!” and waggling their character-underwear-clad derrieres.
Casa Mir, home to the half-naked parade of cartoon hero butts and overused but still funny jokes.
(Yes, I think Monkey’s feeling better. That Motrin I gave him seemed to help. Also I let him smoke some crack.)
(Chickadee would like me add–”Since Grandpa likes funny jokes!”–this joke: Q. How do you clean a tuba? A. With a tuba toothpaste!)
I ask you, is there anything more pitiful than a mild-mannered child whose reaction to the sickies is a gravitational pull to the couch and PBS?
It almost makes me forget that everything about George Shrinks drives me completely insane. (Why is he so small? How did he get that way? Does he ever actually shrink? What a COINCIDENCE that their last name is “Shrinks” and he JUST HAPPENS to be so small! Excuse me while I vomit! Why does everyone on that show have such weird hair? What is it about this insipid premise that hypnotizes my children??)
Behold, Portrait of the Monkey as a Pitiful Lump.
Monkey shuffled into my room this morning and scaled my body in a single fluid movement, parking himself on my hip and tucking his head into the crook of my neck.
“How’s my baby?” I asked him, while brushing my lips across his (still warm) forehead.
“Well, I’m sort of okay, but there’s something wrong with the lid to my mouth,” he informed me.
“Ummmm… the what of your mouth?”
“The lid. I was thirsty and I tried to drink some water but the lid of my mouth sort of hurts and wouldn’t let the water down,” he clarified.
“Oh, I see. Does your throat hurt?”
“No, just the lid is sort of spikey.”
Well then. It’s not a sore throat, it’s a spikey lid. Monkey Fever is a complicated ailment.
No, not that.
This:
Monkey: I don’t want to take a shower. I love you! *wrapping himself around my leg*
Me: I love you too, but you need a shower. Clothes off, please.
Monkey: But I’m cold.
Me: Then go get in the water; it’s warm there.
Monkey: But I’m still cold here in the water!
Me: Yes, your life is dreadful. Get your hair wet.
Monkey: It’s cold, Mama!
Me: *feeling water* It’s fine, sweetie. Here’s your shampoo. Scrubadub.
Monkey: Can I get out now?
Me: Noooo, let’s go quick and then you can get out. Here’s your scrubbie. Don’t forget your feet.
Monkey: Mama, I need you to hug me and make me warm.
Me: Sounds good. Go rinse and I’ll wrap you up in your towel.
Monkey: Hurry! I’m COLD! *shivering*
Me: Okay, come on. *wrapping him in towel*
Monkey: I… I… *bursting into tears*
Me: Monkey! What’s the matter?!
Monkey: *teeth chattering* I… I… cold… love… you… *weeping*
Me: *holding him closer* But you feel warm! You feel really warm! You feel… oh crap. *lightbulb glows over my head*
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I can roughly categorize the stages of my life according to my level of hormonal dysfunction. Now, I know that some women believe any sort of mood disturbance attributed to hormone fluctuations somehow sets back the women’s movement or something, and/or that those claims are about on par with sightings of the Loch Ness Monster. Those women are robots.
[Exhibit A: My mother-ex-law, who would cheerfully chirp at my endometriosis-riddled self curled up in agony during abdomen-rending cramps that she'd never had a cramp in her! entire! life! because she's so active and if only I were to release my death-grip on the bottle of Aleve and go jogging I'd be just fine! (That was grounds for divorce from that family right there.)]
Other women–those who actually have a grip on reality–understand that, like it or not, some of us are profoundly affected by our body chemistry. What a world it would be if only our ovaries were susceptible to hormonal variations! No, the brain is influenced by the waxing and waning of the various female hormones perhaps even more than any other part of the body.
Listen: this madness evolved from a survival instinct gone wrong. The same mechanism that allows a mother to sacrifice her own life for her offspring’s (facing off with an angry bear, perhaps, in neanderthal times; intercepting a bullet or listening to endless hours of “easy listening” hold music with an HMO, in modern times) has somehow morphed into the irrational, emotional GOOD GOD THIS VERY MOMENT IN TIME HAS LIFE AND DEATH IMPORTANCE reaction that possesses even the most grounded of women, under the influence of hormonal surges.
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I managed to work at my new job for two weeks–ten business days–without bothering to investigate the contents of my desk. It turns out that my desk is a veritable treasure trove. Just one more benefit of my cool new job, I guess.
Now I know exactly what my desk holds. I also know exactly what snacks are available in the kitchen, and where the paper plates live.
And–all things considered–I think that crossing half the items off of my to-do list for today was pretty good. A lesser woman would have accomplished less. A less patient woman would’ve been apprehended stuffing a small child into the snowbank in the parking lot. I’m just sayin’.
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