I don’t know about you, but here mornings are the very definition of craziness. Oh, it starts innocently enough: huge brown eyes popping open and announcing to the world in general and me in particular:
“Time for get up, Mammia”. I reluctanty pry open my protesting eyes while she’s already holding a full-length conversation with the cat, including replies from said feline. I try to grumble (softly, so as to not wake the baby) “Logia, sleep some more, let’s sleep a little bit more,” but I know it’s useless. With an embattled sigh I pick up my cellphone-slash-alarm clock and peek at the time.
At this point, I fly out of bed, muttering expletives all the while, trying with very little success to prevent Logia from hearing it because of course I had meant to “snooze” the darn thing and instead had turned it off, so it is now 30 minutes later than it’s supposed to be.
“Farg!” Logan chimes happily. “Crêpe!”
Get the toddler, try to get her dressed. Consider buying some of those restraints they have in mental hospitals, the kind where you strap the patient to the bed. For those of you who’ve never had one: dressing a toddler is like putting clothes on a hyperactive and giggling squid who thinks escaping and running naked through the house is the absolute height of hilarity, and therefore puts all energy and resources to the achievement of that goal.
Finally, Logan is dressed. By this time I am dripping with the sweat of exertion, so into the shower we go, with helpful comments like “Mama naked” and “look your breast” to cheer me on. Should I try to keep her out of the bathroom, nuclear meltdown mode ensues, so I try to shower as quickly as is humanly possible.
The baby is still sleeping like, well, like a baby. With Logan in tow, I go into the spare bedroom, where I have set up my hair and make-up station. I did this so that the baby won’t wake when I dry my hair and apply my make-up, since Logan’s default volume seems to be “ear-piercing”. Trying to prevent the baby from waking is an excersize in futility, once Logan is up, so I haven’t even started drying my hair when the baby wakes and needs attention. So, I leave my hair the way it is and go to dress and diaper Katya.
Eventually I dress myself, and it’s usually only when we finally reach the car (having already locked the house, with Logan staring at everything and still trying to escape at each and every opportunity) that I realize that I never did my hair or make-up. Ah well. Into the car we go, and off to start a new day, and I am already exhaused. Again.
Ah well, it could have been worse. I could have had kittens in the house, causing the toddler to chase and terrorise them everywhere without end, meaning I have to look after them as well as her... oh wait. I do have that.
“Time for get up, Mammia”. I reluctanty pry open my protesting eyes while she’s already holding a full-length conversation with the cat, including replies from said feline. I try to grumble (softly, so as to not wake the baby) “Logia, sleep some more, let’s sleep a little bit more,” but I know it’s useless. With an embattled sigh I pick up my cellphone-slash-alarm clock and peek at the time.
At this point, I fly out of bed, muttering expletives all the while, trying with very little success to prevent Logia from hearing it because of course I had meant to “snooze” the darn thing and instead had turned it off, so it is now 30 minutes later than it’s supposed to be.
“Farg!” Logan chimes happily. “Crêpe!”
Get the toddler, try to get her dressed. Consider buying some of those restraints they have in mental hospitals, the kind where you strap the patient to the bed. For those of you who’ve never had one: dressing a toddler is like putting clothes on a hyperactive and giggling squid who thinks escaping and running naked through the house is the absolute height of hilarity, and therefore puts all energy and resources to the achievement of that goal.
Finally, Logan is dressed. By this time I am dripping with the sweat of exertion, so into the shower we go, with helpful comments like “Mama naked” and “look your breast” to cheer me on. Should I try to keep her out of the bathroom, nuclear meltdown mode ensues, so I try to shower as quickly as is humanly possible.
The baby is still sleeping like, well, like a baby. With Logan in tow, I go into the spare bedroom, where I have set up my hair and make-up station. I did this so that the baby won’t wake when I dry my hair and apply my make-up, since Logan’s default volume seems to be “ear-piercing”. Trying to prevent the baby from waking is an excersize in futility, once Logan is up, so I haven’t even started drying my hair when the baby wakes and needs attention. So, I leave my hair the way it is and go to dress and diaper Katya.
Eventually I dress myself, and it’s usually only when we finally reach the car (having already locked the house, with Logan staring at everything and still trying to escape at each and every opportunity) that I realize that I never did my hair or make-up. Ah well. Into the car we go, and off to start a new day, and I am already exhaused. Again.
Ah well, it could have been worse. I could have had kittens in the house, causing the toddler to chase and terrorise them everywhere without end, meaning I have to look after them as well as her... oh wait. I do have that.
Am I the only one whose universe is run by a 2 and a half year old?
No comments:
Post a Comment