Crack of Dawn: Awake to grumpy wet Huggy Bear. Keep him awake because mother in law is coming to watch him while I run errands.
Slightly less crack of dawn: Get up, make coffee, watch kid spew oatmeal everywhere. We laugh in unison. It is kinda fun to play with food.
9:20: Mother in Law calls to say she lost track of time cleaning her own bathroom and will be nearly an hour late arriving to watch Mac. How the fuck does that happen? Seriously?I proceed to read him the Bedlam Farm Journal with Mac and drink coffee.
10:45: Mother in Law finally arrives. Mac’s pitching a fit. Wet and hungry. I’m all off our routine. And my eyelid is twitching. Try to chat up Mother in Law but really really really need to get my errands done if I have any hope of being laid later. The price I want to exact for her tardiness is best left unwritten.
11:30: Arrive at Hell aka the Walmart at Route 40 and the Beltway and Philadelphia Road. It’s the biggest shit storm I’ve ever seen. They are in the process of making themselves a “Super Walmart.” You know what would be super? A cashier with a sense of urgency. Or at least half a give-a-damn. Fuck. It takes forever. I curse myself for not going to Target. I curse myself for cursing the assholes in front of me that had 5 different transactions and claimed they were all for a non profit. Since when is one single serving of Pringles a purchase for any non-profit? Jerks. Curse myself again for being so mean.
1:00: Arrive at Giant Grocery. I check my phone. A lot. No messages. Huggy and Grandma must be fine. I try to stick to my list. I watch some woman stuff her cart full of pasta sauce. I silently curse her when she takes the last mushroom flavor I like. I curse her even more when I catch her putting it all back on the shelves just before I check out. Ass. I do not go back for it. I see a neighbor headed for the check out. I hide in the cosmetics aisle. I don’t want to chat her up the whole time we are checking out (effectively punching my ticket to hell). I loiter in the cosmetics aisle. I impulse buy some infant fever reducer, some thumb tacks, and some fun items for Chris’ anniversary goody bag (Hey, who doesn’t like a Batman T shirt, a heartfelt home made card, and some novelty warming lube?)
1:44: Arrive at car sweating. They offered me assistance to my car but apparently I’d rather stuff all this shit into my car myself all the while sweating like a sinner in church on Sunday in my lovely Land’s End Starfish crew-neck. I can’t take it off because the adorable striped T beneath it is covered with a massive nail polish stain. I have very little dignity left but I’d far rather feel nasty sweat drip down my back while I wedge crates of clementines into my 2002 VW convertible than run around in a stained T shirt.
2:05: Arrive home. Drag shit in the house for a solid 10 minutes. Jeans are sliding off my non-existant yet still somehow fat ass. I take off my adorable sweatshirt. Mother in Law stares at the stain while telling me she and Mac solved String Theory. I wonder if it involves me hanging myself? I didn’t have the heart to tell her String Theory was disproved last I heard. Mother in Law watches me sweat, struggle, tug, push, prod all the shit out of my car and into the limited storage our row house affords. She proceeds to tell me everything I already know about my kid. I sweat. I sweat. I sweat.
2:46: Mother in Law Leaves. She leaves me with a screaming kid, a floor littered in groceries, and the world’s worst cleavage sweat. She did afford me the luxury of peeing before she departed.
3:10: I chop vegetables like my life depends upon it while bouncing Mac in the Sleepy Wrap. I prepare pie crust. I saute leeks, onions, carrots, celery. I peel and devein shrimp. I throw gifts into bags. I beg Mac to shut the fuck up for three minutes so I can at least hop in the tub momentarily. He very kindly complies. I lament the hair. I set the table. I make an impromptu appetizer since dinner is going to be late. I text Chris apologetically to please pick up Champagne. I didn’t have time to get any. I pick up all the dog poop in the yard. I wash my hands furiously. I take out the trash. I put on a black dress. I set a proper table. I put wailing kid back in the sleepy wrap. He drools grabs the dress in his tiny little fist and jams it in his mouth. I dump a bunch of heavy whipping cream and flour in the casserole before I toss it in the oven. I run upstairs to change kid, slap some Aquaphor on my lips, brush my teeth, and make a futile attempt to look attractive. Have I mentioned the sweat? So much sweat. Plus mascara.
5:01: Husband arrives. I try to look lovely and cool – piece of cake. Cute kid and I smell great. Dinner’s in the oven. What do you mean that fucking champagne isn’t cold?!
5:05: After “Family Hug” Husband wisely suggests he put champagne in the freezer. Shrimp Pot Pie is still baking. I’m still sweating. He walks dogs.
6:15: We attempt a nice dinner. A little wine. Mac sits on Chris’ lap and grabs spoons, napkins, all he can get, all he is offered. I am spent. My mind wanders. I spent too much time out today. My chores are calling. Not the least of which involves Chris’ wonder of the “hot” gift (impulse purchase to avoid neighbor) and how soon we can use it. I’m too tired for champagne? How is that possible? NO! Seriously, how is that possible?!
6:45: Chris and I realize our mutual adoration. We also mutually realize ain’t nothing romantic happenin. We had a great 5 years of taking trips close to our anniversary. This year we might just get some sleep. Champagne stays in the freezer.
8:10: I attempt to change Mac. . . .He goes whacky beserk testing out his newly found rollover skills sans diaper and targeting the cat. I nearly pee my “romantic” undergarments laughing at him grabbing for the cat half dressed.
9:00: Mac’s ready for bed. Chris lets the dogs out. He yells for me to take the Champagne out of the freezer. Already done. But what about my “gift” he laments? Your gift is this. Here. Now. Sorry and Congratulations.
So much sweating.