I am teetering on that edge. You know the edge. Well, maybe you know the edge; I suppose it could just be my edge. *frown* It's the edge between deciding what kind of mood I'm going to be in. I am agitated, aggravated, and leaning toward being a verbally abrasive.
This morning started out well. Grace greeted me in the hall with "Good morning, mama." Granted, I was hoping to squeeze out at least ten minutes to myself, but the sound of her little voice made me smile.
She decided that she was going to take it upon herself to get dressed while I was still in the bathroom. (See, we bought a pair of Disney Princess shoes that light up for her the other day and she would sleep in the blasted things if we'd let her....)By the time I got back to the living room she was putting the finishing touches on getting dressed, and I realized that we had a choice to make: Fight her to get undressed and take her bath before the bus arrived or join her in celebrating the fact that she dressed herself completely without any help. I chose to join her in celebration.
I hadn't paid much attention to Mak. Usually Grace gives me the run down on her. I had walked in and talked to her while handing her bottle to her, but there hadn't been much time for idle chitchat. She was in a good mood and entertaining herself with her toys. I thought we were going to have a good day.
After I loaded Grace onto the bus I went to get the baby. I was met with the smell of vomit, and still, almost two hours, I have yet to locate the source. There was also dried snot everywhere, even on her fingers, which she was quick to point out. And, as if the scene couldn't already choke me, there was shit going straight up her back. (And don't "tsk tsk" me for saying "shit" because it far surpassed what I see to be the limits of "poop." )
I got her out of her crib and began the cleaning of the completely gross baby. Now I have never participated in one of those "chasing the greased pig" contests, but I think I would probably be able to hold my own after fighting to diaper little Miss Mak for the past year. By the time I was finished cleaning her there was shit all over my bed, because that's where, in all of my maternal wisdom, I had chosen to place her to clean her up, and, much to my dismay, right down the front of my t-shirt. Lovely.
I did mutter a warning to Da Man not to roll over until I had Mak's bed changed because there was shit on the bed. But I opted to change her bed first so I would at least have a clean place for her to roost.
When the crib was clean and my bed was wiped down (again, no "tsk tsk" because you must bear in mind that there is a 300 pound pile of male in that bed), we headed to the tub. Giving a bath to Mak is a joy, and no, I'm not being sarcastic. I love giving a bath to her for the little reasons like her joy at catching her toes as they move under the water and the belly laugh when she splashes me with the water. It's a nice thing, giving Mak a bath.
Once she was dressed we headed down here for her brekkie. I had decided that I would scramble and egg for her with some toast. This is the point that I reached the crossroad.
The sink is piled high with dirty pots and pans. The stove was filled with dirty pots and pans. My family, the terminally lazy, hadn't failed to meet my expectations: I was still the only one who knew how to clean the kitchen.
The first thing that crossed my mind was janet's post eons ago on blogster about some coffee creamer that had sat in her fridge. I snorted when I thought about writing her a "Top this" note. *smirk* And then I got mad. I began preaching that I was tired of being the only one who knew how to clean the kitchen. The cats seemed to listen but after a swish of their tails, as if communicating "this chick has lost her mind" in feline, they left the room.
I fixed Mak's brekkie and took it upstairs. And then I decided that since I hadn't gotten a call back regarding my friggin' paycheck that I would call and find out what was going on. "Because of the intricacies of our computer system...." She lost me right there because my mind began reeling in daydream. I imagined myself hopping into my truck and driving to Kentucky, armed with indignation and necessity. Just as I, in dream, reached the front door of the building, the stringing bullshit voice had silenced. "So what you're saying is that although you received my stuff on April 8th, it will be at least May 1st before I get my check?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I wanted to scream into her ear that she was bold. But I didn't. Instead, I commented that I would like to see her make it with two kids under the age of five with one paycheck every month and a fucking half. But she wouldn't understand that because my life's "system has such intricacies...."
So now I am off to clean the kitchen. I am trying to ignore the fact that Mak is upstairs with her grandparents whining for something that evidently mama is only capable of giving. And then I will have just enough time to get in the tub, wake the sleeping giant known as Da Man, and board the bus to do my Super Mama Bus Aide gig.
But I am determined to take the right road today. The "don't get so pissed off about the stupid and small stuff" road. Wish me luck.