I love my children, but I also love the feeling that I've accomplished something -- anything -- worth while. To illustrate just how lousy a homemaker I am: Ashlyn is sitting here beside me drinking the last bits of pop from the four cans of Coke Zero I have stacked on my desk. I'm sitting in my unmade bed writing my blog while Harry Potter babysits my daughter who's now emptying my pop cans into a cup that she dug out from god knows where.
Jerod left for work at 5:30 a.m. and it all went down hill from there. Some of it's bad enough that I don't want to share. And you know -- if you've read any of my previous posts -- that I love sharing everything.
Here goes: I forgot to give the girls their toothbrushes this morning so they didn't brush their teeth. I dumped out two bowls of cereal before I happened upon the only flavor that Lily will eat-- which according to a segment I saw on the evening news has more sugar in one serving than two Twinkies. I put too much mayonnaise on Lily's sandwich, leaving her only a bag of chips and a Little Debbie brownie for lunch. I chased the cat around with a hand vac to stop her from sleeping on top of the cable box.
The list of domestic failures goes on and on, but I'm too ashamed to continue.
When Jerod finally came home tonight he told me he'll be working 14 hour days every day including Saturdays and Sundays, which is really good news, because it means we won't be homeless and Capital One will stop blowing up my phone about the only late payment they've received from me in eight years.
I'm thrilled that my husband has landed an awesome job that will pay our bills and provide a little spending money should we opt for a movie and dinner one night.
On the other hand I have months of days like today stretching out in front of me, and my children as a result have years of therapy and psychotropics stretching out in front of them.