It’s such a lovely feeling to be married to someone that you’re proud of.
My husband doesn’t say much, so you will never find him on Twitter or Facebook or any other kind of social media promoting his work. I, on the other hand, never shut the hell up, so I’m just gonna go ahead and do it for him:
My husband is not only a stellar artist, but he’s a phenomenal father who loves his children more than he will ever articulate. I know this because he bites his lip to keep from laughing at June when she openly defies me or throws a tantrum. I know this because the minute Henry feels a tiny bit warm or is in the slightest amount of pain, he starts pacing and frowning and snapping at people because he’s just so worried. HIs love for his children is in the bite mark on his lip, the terrified feeling in his stomach. He adores them; he agonizes over them. He doesn’t talk about it endlessly, like I do, but I can see it.
And I can see it in his artistic ability. Flipping through his sketchbooks, you can see pages and pages of cartoons — all of them starring our children. All their little personality quirks. Snippets of conversation. Portraits. If an artist draws what he loves, then we are very well loved.
Happy father’s day to my sweet husband. Thank you for loving us — in thought, in deed, in expression, and in art.
It occurred to me lately that I’m trying to find Nirvana and it just doesn’t exist.
Every morning I wake up and rush around, trying to find it. Here is how my crazy-anxiety-brain works: If the house is perfectly clean and the children are fed and the laundry is put away and the dishwasher is emptied and nobody is crying or fighting, then my anxiety will go away. My heart will stop pounding. My skin will stop crawling. My head will stop buzzing. That’s the idea anyway. I have no idea where this idea came from because this has literally never happened. Shangri-La doesn’t exist. I mean, that’s the point, right? Once you find it, it means your journey is over. And the journey with two toddlers is never, never, never over. There is always more to clean. There is always someone whining, screaming, or peeing on the floor. And yet I keep cleaning.
My anxiety lately has been through the roof. I don’t know why. Maybe my hippie best friend is right and I need to cut out the gluten. Maybe I need to increase my zoloft. Maybe I have OCD? Maybe I have a progesterone problem. But I think searching for Shangri-La is a symptom, not a cause.
Anxiety is such a heavy cross when you’ve got two small children. As much as I love them, they make it exponentially worse. Their tiny, squeaky voices (which I adore) are just relentless. June never stops talking. Everything she says I find impossibly cute and nerve-destroying all at once. Her two thousand constant questions. Her acting out. I’ll be frantically trying to vacuum (because if I just get all the crumbs off the floor, then maybe I won’t feel like running out the door. No crumbs will mean that all order has been restored and my anxiety will magically dissipate. Right?) and June will dump a bucket full of glue and glitter right in front of my vacuum ON PURPOSE and oh my gosh, the restraint it takes for me not to scream and pitch everything out the window (including the toddler) and light myself on fire and run down the street screaming is just heroic. Instead I just scream at her and fight back the urge to cry.
I’ve had anxiety before, but I’ve never had this weird, panicky-anger, which is throwing me for a loop and making life with two small children almost unbearable. Part of me hates writing posts like this because it makes me sound like Complainey McWhiner and I definitely love my life. But I definitely do not love this anxiety that creeps up on me like a rising tide and overpowers me before I even realize that it’s there. I don’t even realize how stressed I am until mornings like this, when my heart is pounding and I’ve literally vacuumed and mopped the entire downstairs before 7 am, and I’m yelling at Henry to just STOP SHRIEKING, for the love of God, because I don’t know why he’s upset and seemingly nothing I’m doing is helping. Maybe hand-washing and rearranging all the dishes in the cupboards will help?
(Spoiler: it doesn’t.)
What’s frustrating is that I know it’s futile. It’s impossible to have a perfectly clean house AND two well-behaved, expertly-groomed toddlers. But I still keep trying. And it just rachets up my anxiety even further. Just as soon as I load all the dishes in the dishwasher, Henry will empty all of the tupperware out of the tupperware drawer, giving me something else to put away. The more I clean, the more mess they’ll make. And the less attention I give them, the more they act out. But for whatever reason, I just can’t get out of this weird OCD cleaning loop. I have to clean, and I get panicked when I don’t.
What do you do with all this weird stress-anger? How can you keep from snapping angrily at your baby when he’s upended an entire sippy cup of milk on your freshly-mopped floor? Why is a clean house even important to me right now?
Aaaand June just shit her pants. For the third time this morning. That’s three times before 8 am.
Calgon, get me the hell outta here.
One of the most trying things about toddler-wrangling is their neediness. Their urgency.
You think you leave it behind when you finally crawl out of the newborn stage, but you don’t. Not really. It just changes shape. They still have immediate, urgent needs, and so much more of them, it seems. As an infant, they would wail for food. Wail for comfort. Wail for a diaper change. That was mostly it. And then they’d sleep the rest of the day. With toddlers, there are so many more things to wail about. So many more. And they never sleep.
Apparently, when you’re two, everything is an emergency, and everything needs to be treated with the immediacy of a level-red terrorist alert. As a result, the most commonly-used phrase in our house is hold on. I must say it to June twenty-five times before noon:
Yes, I know you need help pulling up your undies; please hold on, I have cookie batter on my hands.
Yes, I know you can’t get the cap off your marker, I heard you the first four times; please hold on while I catheterize your brother.
Please stop climbing on me, I know there’s a spider on the wall, I’ll kill it in like, two seconds, just hold on. HOLD ON.
I KNOW the Netflix stopped working, but I’m giving Henry a bath; just hold on for five minutes. HOLD ON. STOP SHRIEKING. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
Unlike June, Henry doesn’t have five million requests for stupid shit, but he makes up for it with his god-awful whine. On a good day, he sounds like Beaker. But if I don’t get him what he wants quickly enough, it escalates into just straight-up screaming.
Obviously, my anxiety goes through the roof when they’re like this. One of my old PTSD triggers, for whatever reason, is a shrill, unrelenting, loud, or repetitive noise. Thanks to modern medicine and therapy, I’m no longer thrown into an endless panic spiral. But it still grates on my nerves probably more than it should, and after thirty seconds of high-pitched screaming and whining and begging, my heart starts to pound pretty quickly. It’s one of nature’s greatest ironies — children, with their whining and their incessant needs, can trigger your “fight or flight” mechanism unlike any other. Yet raising children is one situation you can’t just flee from on a whim. Not without legal repercussions, anyway.
And there’s an existential anxiety there, too, when they need something and they screech super loudly and I have to tell them to just hold on, hold on! When you’ve got two baby birds screeching for food, you start to feel inadequate when you can’t feed them fast enough. Because, you know, feeding them is your job. It’s like, a basic requirement of living. They’re HUNGRY, for God’s sake — listen to them! They’re starving! What kind of a mother lets her children STARVE??
And let’s not kid ourselves — there’s an anxiety there that no matter how many spiders I kill and markers I un-cap, I can’t give them everything they need, at all times, all at once. It’s anxiety that I’m not enough. That I just can’t do it. That I just can’t meet their needs.
Anxiety that maybe I’m just not very good at this motherhood thang.
What other job can you say you’ve waited your whole life for, and have now done for years, and still you have no idea what you’re doing? Are there any other jobs where you can mess up every single day, irrevocably, and not be fired?
I know they won’t always be like this — I know. And I’m not doing a horrible job, I get it. It’s just an anxiety I have to learn to deal with. Story of my life.
And I know that I’ll miss this some day. I know. I will miss this urgency, this constant screaming excitement. It’s overwhelming, but it’s the same thing that makes her scream with delight when she sees soap bubbles. It’s the same thing urgency that makes her run into my arms and scream mommy mommy mommy! when I get back from the grocery store. It’s not all terrible.
It’s one more two-year-old thing I’ll have to say goodbye to. Yesterday I told June to “JUST HOLD ON” maybe sixty times. Not an exaggeration. Yesterday I was more than ready to say goodbye to this particular stage of being two.
And then we went to preschool. And now I’m not so sure.
When we got there, she dashed up to the front door and judo-kicked the handicap button on the door. The door swung open and she ran inside, pell-mell, past the secretary, jabbering about her pigtails, and ran through another set of doors, down the hall, to her preschool classroom. She needed to get to class. There were crafts to be done. And songs to sing. It was an emergency, as always. Henry and I huffed and puffed behind her, trying to catch up.
Gotta get to pre-school, mom! Let’s go, mom!
I love watching her pigtails swing back and forth as she’s running away from me down the hall. I love watching her back-pack (“pack-pack”) bounce all over her tiny body. Sometimes I love her toddler excitement. Okay? I do. Sue me.
But I’m still gonna tell her to slow down. Come back. Don’t you want to hold my hand?
Just hold on.
A few weeks ago, the kids and I went to weekly Rosary at our church. (In the interest of full disclosure, lest you think we are super holy or something, we showed up late and I knew about half the words to the Hail Holy Queen prayer. What I did remember sounded something like, “Hail, Holy Queen — sit down! — our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To thee — sit on your bottom! Now! — do we cry — stop crying! — poor, banished children of Eve — just take this candy. EAT THIS CANDY AND BE STILL!
and et cetera.)
I was chatting it up with another woman afterward, and I casually mentioned something about Henry having special needs. (I don’t know how these things come up in conversation. Honestly, whenever I’m first meeting someone, I just want to blurt out Henry has spina bifida! — not because I think it’s relevant, or that it defines him, necessarily. But because people are always shocked when we’ve been talking for a while and it inevitably comes up. I feel like I’m hoodwinking people. This woman was no exception.)
This woman was stunned. “Special needs?” She said, visibly taken aback. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Not a thing,” I said. “But he has Spina Bifida, so he has some mobility problems.”
“Yeah, along with some other things. He has a shunt.”
“What? You can’t even tell!”
“I know, right?!”
These conversations never fail to make me laugh. I will never forget Henry’s many ultrasounds, and hearing the words shunt and clubbed feet and multiple delays, and imagining myself giving birth to, well, some kind of creature. In utero, he seemed more like the sum of his various disabilities rather than an actual person. When I was pregnant, I desperately wanted a glimpse of what he would look like at birth, at six months, at one year. Would he be okay, in spite of his problems? Would be be deformed and eternally pitied?
And the ultimate question — Will I be able to love him? Will other people?
Fourteen months later, you’d have to be insane not to love him. He’s a butterball. He’s incredibly social — the opposite of June, who doesn’t want anything to do with you if you don’t have candy — and constantly babbling, smiling, laughing. Amazingly, he has no cognitive delays so far. He is scoring ahead of his age, developmentally, in a few areas. What I would have given to know that when I was pregnant with him. The most common question people ask me is, how’s Henry doing? I never know what to say, other than he’s incredible, he’s doing great. He’s got some medical issues, obviously, but they’re just such a small part of who he is, and they affect our day-to-day life so little, his good-natured, super strong personality just kind of eclipses all of that. He’s just great.
But anyway. Because I so desperately wanted a “future preview” of sorts, when I was pregnant, I’m hoping to provide one now, for anyone else who is wondering how Henry’s doing, and for anyone who is currently pregnant with an SB kid and wants to know what SB might specifically look like a little farther down the road. So given that Spina Bifida is a spectrum, and that all children look and develop differently, here is what Spina Bifida looks for us, 14 months out of the gate (and by “gate” I mean “vagina”).
So how can you tell he has Spina bifida?
Probably the most glaring defect Henry has is clubbed foot. By far, this was the thing that scared me the most when I was pregnant with him, other than the prospect of him being severely mentally handicapped (which, actually, is a rarity with spina bifida). The term “clubbed foot” sounds like such a horrible, grotesque anomaly. I had no idea they would be perfectly adorable baby feet that were turned inward. So not the nightmare that I was expecting.
Truth be told, we love these little hook-feet. He crawls all over the floor, and his little hook-feet catch various things and drag them across the floor with him. We’re always having to chase him down and pluck things out from between his legs. They are ridiculously soft and smooth and precious.
People ask us often when we’re going to “fix” his feet. The answer is June. We have a “tendon release” in his feet (::shudder::) and ponsetti casting scheduled for the first week of June — we wanted to wait until he was able to use those muscles developmentally, with standing and pulling up and such, so that he would potentially have a better outcome. Is it crazy that I’m going to miss these tiny feet? Is it crazy that I look at other babies’ feet and think, “Wow, those are so big and weird-looking! EW!“
One thing that’s been problematic about Henry’s SB is the lessened feeling below his knee. Since Henry has spinal cord damage, the feeling below his knee is limited. It’s kind of hard to tell what he can feel, if anything: Sometimes I swear he can feel me tickling his feet. Other times, like in January, it doesn’t look like there’s much going on down there.
In January, I went upstairs to retrieve him from his nap, and what I found in his crib shocked me. Happy as a clam, Henry was lying there with blood all over his face. When I whipped back the covers, to my eternal horror I saw that he had blood smeared all over his legs, and his toes were a mangled mess.
Turns out, after the husband and I stopped freaking out and calmed down enough to assess the situation, Henry was nibbling on his toes like any other baby would. Except that since he couldn’t feel any pain or pressure, he just kept nibbling…and nibbling. So in our house, when Henry’s cutting teeth, we stock up on socks, shoes, and a bunch of bandaids and antibiotics. Gross.
Henry also has low trunk strength and limited hip flexion. You can see it a little bit in the picture above, how he’s kind of leaning forward and folding in on himself (granted, he was like two months old in this picture, so he wouldn’t really be sitting upright anyway). The lower trunk strength issues make him a little wobbly when he sits unassisted. The hip flexion problems make it difficult for him to stand upright.
Here’s a super-scientific diagram of what I’m talking about:
So basically, if Henry were to stand, he’d be sort of folded in on himself and standing at an angle, like a little old man using a walker. This is because of tight tendons in his hips, or something. We’re trying to stretch out these tendons in physical therapy, but there’s a small chance he might need surgery to “loosen” them. (::shudder::) Our hope is that he will be able to stand and walk, relatively unassisted. He does neither right now.
What he can do is amazing. No, he does not walk. Yet. No, he does not stand. (Although there are kids with SB I know who can stand at this point. Like I said, it’s a spectrum.) BUT — he’s starting to pull up into a kneeling position (when I’m unloading the dishwasher and he tries to pull the knives out of the silverware rack). And best of all, he crawls all over the place. So quickly that at preschool this week, he crawled out the door and into the hallway three times before I found him and caught up to him. Dude is fast.
In summary, he’s doing amazingly well, and I am so incredibly proud. This is what SB looks like for us at this moment in time.
Which is to say, better than I ever thought possible.
Six months into our pregnancy with Henry, after our spina bifida diagnosis, my husband and I would make regular treks up to Park Ridge to see the Maternal-Fetal Medicine specialist, who kept us abreast on how the baby was doing in-utero. Since I’m extroverted and I adore small talk, I started chatting up the receptionist as we were filling out some paperwork, post-appointment. At this point, we had already been told by two separate doctors that Henry would be totally paralyzed from the waist down.
We started talking about her kids — three girls! — and I asked her if she preferred girls, or if she might try for a boy. We both quickly agreed that the baby’s sex wasn’t really that important — boy or girl, they were blessings.
“Oh, I like girls, but it doesn’t matter to me!” she exclaimed. “You know, as long as they’re healthy and running around!”
I felt it and Lou felt it, simultaneously — that hot knife of grief in the belly. I think he actually winced. I laughed, bewildered, and said something like, “LOL I KNOW RIGHT? HAHAHA OTHERWISE IT WOULD BE AWFUL, WOULDN’T IT, IF THEY COULDN’T WALK???” and then slumped back to the waiting room with my paperwork.
Later, on the ride home, Lou bristled. “She works for a maternal-fetal specialist,” he grumbled. “What was she thinking? Healthy and running around? What the hell?”
That phrase has haunted me, ever since we found out that our child would be born with a birth defect. As long as it’s healthy! People chirp at you, when you talk about finding out the gender. Boy? Doesn’t matter! Girl? Who gives a shit! Nothing else matters but perfect health! And once you discover that your kid isn’t healthy, it almost feels like a threat.
Because what if it’s not healthy?
That phrase terrifies me. Because we’re talking about our children — an arrangement that’s supposed to be unconditional — and as long as they’re healthy! is alarmingly conditional. Everyone’s happy for a new baby and congratulations are in order — but only under certain criteria. Right? And if baby doesn’t meet that criteria, well, all bets are off. All the congratulations vanish. Your support system bottoms out from under you. People start whispering. Doctors start talking about going in another direction. Changing the course of the pregnancy. Disrupting the pregnancy. Termination. Because, clearly, if your child isn’t picture-perfect, a SWIFT DEATH is preferable.
It’s not wrong to want a healthy baby, make no mistake. Nobody prefers a medically fragile baby. Nobody wants to see her child suffer. So we wish for health. We make ominous, defensive, vague statements. Everything will be okay — unless it’s not!
Let’s retire that phrase. Shall we?
It’s time to stop putting health on a pedestal.
Is health important? Uh, yeah, duh. Is it the summit of our human experience? Is it the sole quality off of which we should determine the worth of our children? No.
We need to move past this fatalistic attitude we have that says a life with a disability is tragic and hopeless. We need to get over the idea that a handicapped baby is better off dead. We’ve had handicapped presidents, for God’s sake. We’ve had handicapped olympic medalists. One of the most sought-after motivational speakers on the planet has neither arms nor legs, and I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he’s smarter and more physically active than I am. For the love of God, one of the most poetic and well-written books in existence was written by a man who could only blink his left eye.
And when we say as long as it’s healthy!, we’re negating all the unlimited potential we have as human beings. We don’t need to be “healthy” to be heroic. And we shouldn’t need to be able-bodied to be considered human beings.
And when we say as long as it’s healthy!, we’re telling parents that our support as a society is conditional. Have a healthy baby, and you’re golden. Come back from your ultrasound with a special needs diagnosis, and we’ll need to start discussing your options.
Come on, society. We’re better than that.
Look. If I have to read one more debate about stay-at-home mothers (SAHMs) and Working Mothers and who works harder and sacrifices more, I’m going to puke.
SAHMs work hard. Working Moms work hard. Everyone works hard in different ways. Why is THIS the conversation I keep seeing over and over again in the blogosphere. Can we move on now?
Even less do I like the self-congratulatory treacle I keep seeing on the Huffington Post and my Facebook news feed — letters from SAHMs to working moms, and vice versa, about how amazing the other one is, and how hard they work. You’re the best! No, YOU’RE the best! YOU work harder — no, YOU do!
Can we quit blowing each other for a minute? How about we agree that moms are moms, and different methods of mothering have different advantages and disadvantages. Both have their unique challenges. Why do we need to quantify these challenges, and debate them, and dissect them endlessly? I don’t know about you, but I have a hard enough time getting them dressed and halfway presentable in time for preschool. I’m not going to concern myself with which mom is working harder, and who deserves more praise, and why.
I stay at home with my two children, Henry (12 months), and June (2.5). I fully acknowledge that I’m very privileged to be able to do so. I will also fully acknowledge that it’s hard, and grueling, and sometimes I’m so desperate for grown-up conversation, I want to gnaw my own arm off so I can chat with the paramedics. It’s hard. It’s boring. Is it harder than going to the office and picking your kid up from daycare every day? I don’t know. I suspect not. And what does it matter?
So. I’m not going to sit here and try to make the case for being a SAHM or a Working Mom. All I can present to you are the facts. I’m a SAHM, and here is how I spend my day. You can judge for yourself. Or not. Here we go:
7:30 AM: Wake up, immediately catheterize Henry and change his diaper. Dose him with his medicine. Clean half of it off the floor when he spits it out in disgust.
7:40 AM: Change June’s diaper and put her in underwear. Change her underwear approximately four times because she can’t decide between Dora and Hello Kitty.
7:50 AM: Run around getting breakfast for both children. Usually a colorful array of berries, bananas, and dry cereal, which is then smeared into a collage on their clothes, floor, seat, and walls.
8:20 AM: Inhale some food and check e-mail until one of the children start throwing food on the floor, signifying that they are finished eating. Clean the children and strip them down so I can wash all the berries and crusty cereal out of their clothes and hair.
8:30 AM: End up completely bathing them in the kitchen sink. Throw all the berry-smeared clothes, the high chair covers, and the towels in the washing machine.
9:00 AM: “Oops, Mommy, I think I have to go –” Clean up puddle of piss on the floor. Clean up piss footprints leading into the bathroom. Clean up piss-soaked Dora The Explorer underwear that June threw in the sink, for some god damn reason. Bleach the sink. Wipe down the toddler’s piss-streaked legs and feet. Grab a random pair of underwear out of the diaper basket and ignore the shrieks of protest. NO MOMMY NO MOMMY I WANTED HELLO KITTY!!! HELLO KITTY MOMMY! DORA IS A BAD IDEA!!! Yeah, well, so was your conception, I want to fire back. Throw the piss undies in the washing machine.
9:25 AM: Henry crawls around on the floor and upends the recycling bin while I set up a “craft” for June. Our crafts include a) mixing snow and Ovaltine into a cup to make a milkshake, b) painting on paper with a mixture of water and food coloring, and c) gluing googly eyes on fuzzy pom-pom balls to make a “creature.” Those are the only three things she wants to do, on any given day, ever. Any one of these will entertain her for a full ten minutes, until she moves on to the next craft. Henry upends the recycling bin, open and shuts the kitchen cabinets, and scavenges for snacks on the floor. I forget what I’m doing at this point, between crafts. Probably sitting on the ground, staring off into space.
10:45 AM: Time to catheterize Henry again. Henry, in case you aren’t a regular reader, has some special needs, due to being born with Spina Bifida Myelomeningocele. The only special need of his that really affects us on a day-to-day basis is that he needs to be catheterized four times daily. Catheterization is really no big deal. Basically, we stick a pee-tube in his wiener and empty his urine into his diaper so he won’t have to overwork his bladder or something. I would link a YouTube video showing how it’s done, but I don’t want to get put on some list. Think of it as threading a needle: We stick a tube in, pee drains out, and then we take out the tube. Simple.
What’s not simple, however? Trying to navigate the pee-tube up his pee-hole while he’s twisting and turning to get away from me. So a procedure that should take about thirty seconds somehow turns into a five-minute wrestling match, Henry writhing on the floor and trying to crawl off into the other room somewhere, while I’m pinning his arms down with my legs and swearing quietly so June won’t hear. I give him my phone to play with so he holds still, and make a mental note to wipe the pee off of it later.
11 AM: Time for naps. Children won’t nap. This isn’t how it happens with my Sim family. Try to comfort them in vain:
Tell June for the hundreth time she can have cereal after she takes a good nap — because God forbid she’d have to wait more than an hour between eating. Comfort her when she cries I NEED CEREAL I’M SO HOOONNNGRY like she lives in a Sudanese refugee camp. Take her out of the room and change her diaper so Henry won’t have to hear her yelling about being hungry. Hold June down with your arms and legs and forcibly strap a diaper on her, ignoring her cries of I DONT YIKE DIAPERS, I NEED DORA UNDIES. Drag June back into the nursery and dump her on the bed. Pat Henry on the head absentmindedly while he tries to writhe his way out of his swaddling blanket. Praise Jesus and all the angels and saints when they both stop crying and drift off to sleep. Eventually.
11:30 AM – 1:30 PM: Go downstairs. Half-heartedly fold a basket of laundry and leave the clean clothes sitting in the basket for the next six days. Shove some granola in your mouth as a snack. Join the children in their room and sleep like the dead.
2:00 PM: Henry wakes up. Time to cath him again. Tell Henry to stop being such a douchebag and hold still; make a mental note to go to confession.
2:05 PM: June wakes up. Change her back into Dora underwear.
2:06 PM: Prepare lunch.
2:08 PM: “Mommy, I smell poop! It’s coming from my butt!” Clean up poop smears on the floor. Empty out June’s poop-filled underwear. Gather the poop-streaked toilet paper (“I wiped myself, mommy!”) and dump it into the toilet. Bleach everything. Wash hands. Multiple times.
2:30 – 4:00 PM: Feel incredibly, insanely guilty that you’ve spent all day running around laying out crafts for June and changing her underwear while Henry has been digging through the recycling and eating cereal off the floor. Play on the floor with Henry. Revel in how beautiful and intelligent he is. Read stories to him. Lovingly pry his hands from your head when he wants to pull your hair. Alternate between paying Henry attention and paying June attention, as they are both competing fiercely for it.
4:00 PM: Put on Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood and let both kids watch like six episodes. Lay on the floor and pretend to do yoga but really take a mom-nap.
4:30 PM: Remember you forgot to defrost something for dinner. Crap.
4:31 PM: What can I make for dinner? Text Lou: can we order pizza for the third time this week? No? Allrighty then.
4:32 PM: BAKED POTATOES. I AM GENIUS.
4:33 PM: Throw a few baked potatoes in the oven and set it to 400 degrees. Bam. Dinner served.
4:35 PM: Run around cleaning up clutter, sweeping, wiping down counters, shoving more berry-smeared clothes in the washing machine, and throwing sippy cups in the dishwasher so the house is some semblance of clean before Lou walks in the door.
5:30 PM: Take the kids on a walk around the neighborhood. Yell exercise time, exercise time! Yay! Mmm — smell that fresh air?! Ignore how the kids are clamoring to get back inside the house. Walk two blocks and then come back.
5:45 PM: Shove the children into Daddy’s arms the minute he comes through the door. Collapse on the couch and tell all of them you’re going to check some VERY IMPORTANT E-MAILS and demand that they not disturb you, as you are VERY BUSY and IMPORTANT. Proceed to check Facebook while ignoring their cries for dinner.
6:00 PM: Realize you’ve burned the baked potatoes. Order pizza.
7:00 PM: Serve pizza to starving children. Strip off their sauce-laden clothes and throw them in the washer on top of their berry-and-cereal-smeared clothes. Catheterize Henry. Rinse June off in the sink. Diaper them both. Clothe them both. Carry them up into our bed, where they both insist on sleeping, and dump them there. Tuck them in lovingly and then run the hell out of there before they can protest.
7:30 PM: Collapse on the couch. Watch maybe one episode of The Wire before starting to fall asleep. Go back up to your room and watch your children sleep quietly. Stroke their hair and kiss their eyelids. Thank God for these precious gifts. Resolve to do better tomorrow. Resolve to be the mom they deserve.
7:35 PM: Polish up your resume. You know, just in case.