September 24th, 2011
I’ve recently been given a project that will take me 22 years to complete, minimum, and it’s due in two weeks. I took the workload on late last month, and according to my math-sucks-butt calculations, I would definitely be able to finish it all by the October 9 deadline. However, using my husband’s constantly-doing-math-in-his-head-JUST-FOR-FUN arithmetic, I’d need to work 10 hours a day for a month to finish what needs to be done.
So we have ourselves a problem.
Because of the kids and the school and the soccer and the sleeping and the cooking and the birthday-present-buying and the not-head-exploding and the butt-sitting-in-a-chair-all-day and back to the kids.
Homeys don’t play the-be-quiet-mom’s-working game.
And then there’s the fact that their mom can’t say no.
To other people.
Like: “Hey! Can you write us an article on book nooks?” to which I say…
to which they reply:
to which I say…
to which they remind:
“It’s due in 10 minutes!”
to which I remark:
“Can you edit this 83-page document about the massive bummer of megacolon affliction?
to which I say: “OF COURSE!”
to which they say: “There’s 29 more like them coming in forty seconds!”
to which I say
to which they say:
“Do them all now!”
which is when I put crack directly on my cerebral cortex and become someone my family wants to shoot in the face.
Complicating matters is that I really only have three workable hours a day when the kids are in school. And then there’s the days they’re not in school, which with the budget cuts, is pretty often given all the “Professional Development Days” and “Just a Random Day Off” and “PSYCHE! No School Again Today!” days.
(I promise that when I’m paid to write, I get to the point much quicker than in paragraph googolplex.)
Because the point is, according to my calculations:
Katrabillion projects due + Three hours a day + Not enough coffee beans in all the coffee-producing nations of the world + “PSYCHE! No School Again Today!” = Mashed potatoes for breakfast and a fat butt.
I’m still working out the math.
Furthermore, all this is to say that my husband has really stepped up to the plate.
The last two days he took complete control of the house and the kids, and even did laundry and made food. HE MADE FOOD!
The problem is, he’s a much better housekeeper/cook/organizer than I am.
Such as for instance, I actually found the milk in the fridge this morning as it was not obscured by half-open cans of refried beans and an exploded heirloom tomato. I FOUND THE MILK! In addition, the coat rack by the door did not have Coats of Many Colors hanging on it. No. There were only the coats we needed. No more, no less, no full-body parkas for a freak San Diego snowmageddon. JUST A FEW COATS!
Also, it’s possible for people to make dinner without complaining how no one appreciates you and would someone please do the dishes after. A WHINE-FREE DINNER!
He even, and I do not say this lightly, set out the girls’ soccer clothes the night before so as to avoid the morning-mad-scramble-of-missing-cleats-doom. THE NIGHT BEFORE!
This is all very disturbing to me.
I just expected that my crazy way of doing things crazily in a crazed manner all up in the crazy was the ONLY way.
So I’m gonna have a talk with him about maybe nutting up his game so I don’t feel so inadequate.
Right after he’s home from buying a birthday present IN ADVANCE OF THE 30 MINUTES BEFORE THE PARTY for Toots’ friend.
This has got to stop.
P.S. Having my husband take care of the mom stuff really is awesome. I worked all day yesterday while he sorted the laundry, picked the kids up from school, grocery shopped, and made a delightful dinner of meat and potatoes. He even did the dishes afterward.
Even just one day of not worrying about the details?