I had a Red Bull and two Madeline cookies for lunch today if you've been wondering how life with three under four is going. With a near nineteen pound three month old, you'd think I'd be skinnier than I am and my arms (well, at least my right arm) more toned than they currently are. I'm here to tell you that neither is the case. In fact, I've still got twenty pounds to lose despite my short stint with weight loss snack bars. I mean, I'm sure the Madelines and copious amounts of caffeine and high fructose corn syrup aren't helping matters but come on now!
Despite having washed my face and brushed my teeth for the night only moments earlier, here I am sitting on the couch, laptop popped open having just grabbed a Hershey bar from the fridge. We're the Millers is playing on TV and serves as semi-adequate background noise. I also totally just lied to you- I definitely didn't wash my face before and rarely ever do before bed, it just made the sentence flow a bit better so I decided to throw it in there. I need to get better at that.
Washing my face, I mean. Not the lying part.
My husband is trying to lure me upstairs with the promise of wine and a hot shower. The wine sounds tempting while the shower certainly is not. It's one of those strings-attached showers, if you know what I mean and those sorts of things lead to babies and we're maxed out in that department currently and forever, thankyouverymuch.
I'm pretty sure he just wants to see my new tattoo. After all, who waits until they're in their late twenties/early thirties to starting making poor life decisions and permanently inking their body? I'm kidding about the last part there. It's no secret that I put a lot of thought into my ink and the same rings true for my latest addition. Even though his first remark upon seeing it was, "shit, that's bigger than I expected," he quickly sang a different tune when he decided to start telling me that he "read somewhere that girls with more than one tattoo like to..." Well, you can just fill in that there blank yourselves.
If you're wondering, the answer is, "they don't' like to do that" so unfortunately my husband was sorely misinformed. It does have me questioning his current choices of reading material, that's for sure.Girls with more than one tattoo and three children under four love to sleep. That's what they love. They love to sleep and eat Hershey bars long after everyone is in bed so that she doesn't have share a single goddamned piece.
Speaking of pieces, I have to clean our house before the house cleaners come tomorrow which is the dumbest fucking thing in the entire world. Now, let's pause for a minute so that the Internets can rip me a new one for hiring a house cleaner because whine, whine, whine, cry, cry, cry, woe is me and I can't even clean my own house and take care of my children. See what I did there? I did it for you. Asshole thereupon ripped.
The reality of that is that I can, in fact, clean my house but when the kids tear it apart thirty-six seconds later, I want to throw things, lots of things, just like they do. Instead, when someone else cleans my house and the kids tear it apart thirty-six seconds later, I've wasted not my own time but rather my money and I'm okay with that. Now, when the cleaning crew comes, I throw the kids into the car and we go out to breakfast. We bring donuts to the park. It's the best $120 I spend every month.
If you don't count the large iced cookie dough coffees from Dunkin Donuts and Spicy Chicken Deluxe sandwiches from Chick-Fil-A.
Seriously though, I'm about to break up with our current house cleaner. I'm new to this "luxury" if you want to call it that (previously we had our home "deep cleaned" a couple of times per year but when they're coming on the regular there's literally a "de-clutter clause" in my contract that says I must de-clutter the house before they arrive.
Clearly they have no idea what it's like to live with small children because, hellerrr, they are the epitome of clutter. So before I brushed my teeth and lied to you about washing my face, I was de-cluttering my house which really meant I was moving one pile of shit from the floor in one room to another table in a different room and maybe shoving some of it in a drawer.
I'm about three months and a baby behind in my writing. I don't have much else to say about that other than I have the words. I really do. I just don't have the time to write them. How do people have the time to do these things? I think I'm on the verge of figuring it out...
Last week I hired a Mother's Helper. She's a high school graduate who comes to my house four hours a week and plays with my kids. She does this so that I can do things like write, cook, or fold a load of laundry without having to get up 1,589 times to break up a fight, put someone in timeout, fill a sippy cup, spread peanut butter on a sandwich, roll the baby back over to his back, change a diaper or really, tell my kids, "wait one more minute." The truth is they really love our new helper and I'll be sad to see her off to college in a couple of months.
At this rate, by then I will have outsourced every single one of my domestic responsibilities.
I will also be broke.
If only I could hire someone out to satisfy my husband.
I kid.I know what I signed up for when I got married. I'm pretty sure there was something about that in my vows or something.
I know. I know what you're going to say. This is just a season. How much do you want to kick a kitten every time someone says, "oh, but it's just a season," or "give yourself some grace." I'm pretty sure that if it wasn't for the blog world, those two sayings would be all but obsolete, no matter how very true they might be. The blog world is a funny, funny place.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some more chores to do. Not tonight honey, I need to wash my... face.