Today started at 4:45 am. Jack was UP. “Mommmmma. MaaaaaaMaaaaaaa. Mommmm.” He lays on the ground behind his and Carter’s door (which has one of those child-proofers on the inside doorknob to prevent 2-year old escapees) and calls me until I come get him. Carter sleeps through all of this from the top bunk. It’s a Monday — and the first day of school — but my 6am alarm setting was clearly unnecessary.
Jack eats two of Saturday’s leftover pancakes from a Ziplock in the fridge as I put the coffee on, toss in a load of laundry and unload the dishwasher. I rub my eyes and my right contact RIPS IN HALF. I spend a considerable amount of time manually peeling back my eyelids and rolling my eyeball around until the missing half plops out. Gross.
Elizabeth gets up at 6:06, eats, and goes back to bed. Jack and I watch Frozen on the couch. Well, Jack crawls on me while Frozen plays in the background. I brush my teeth and apply concealer on, uh, everything. At 6:30, we wake up Carter. More pancakes, on with the new school clothes, lunchbox packed. I take pictures. So many pictures. Wake up Charlotte and feed her. Wrangle Jack into his special “muscle” shirt. Load him and Carter into their carseats. Then load up baby carseats. Carry one into the car, click it in, return for the next. Drive to school. Navigate crazy first-day crowds. Drop off.
I spend the next hour and a half feeding one twin and then the next with my phone squashed between my ear and my shoulder, trying to get in touch with doctors and developmental specialists for Jack. So many waitlists.
We do Play Doh for a while. “Sensory work”. Squish, roll, stamp. We mold pancakes and tacos, pretend to eat birthday cakes and pizzas. We make blankets and helmets for Iron Man. “Imaginative play.”
I set Jack up with a snack and make another phone call while changing round three of diapers. Meanwhile, he ditches the spoon, opting to eat his blueberry yogurt with his fist. Elizabeth poops on me. The receptionist puts me on another waitlist.
I load them up again (four trips from house to garage, not bad) and drop the girls off at my mom’s before we drive to toddler tumbling. “Heavy work”. When we get there, it’s cancelled.
Annnnd it’s 11am.
I’m writing this down because this is what the days are right now. Because it’s 9pm now and I’m laying awake after trying to go to sleep when the kids went down (except I can still here Jack laying behind his door). Because when tomorrow starts, today will be a blur. Because even though “they” never told me that momming is this hard, they did tell me that I should write things down. Also because someone on the radio this morning said that marriages that survive having young children are more likely to last and all I could think was WHAT ABOUT MOMS? DO I LAST?
I am trying so hard to drive this truck, but gravel keeps flying up and getting all in my grill.
Actually, it’s a mini van. There’s a lady in my neighborhood that drives a truck with a “Silly boys, trucks are for girls” sticker, and I just — ugh. All I ever think when I see it is WHO HAS TIME TO LIVE LIKE THAT?!
Which is probably not a normal reaction to a bumper sticker.
I have lots of questions, and I am so tired, and I beat myself up inside my head and then Jack steps on my toes and someone calls or emails with bad news and the floor is a mess and I honestly think I’m going to explode or cry but instead I make dinner.
(This whiny rant should be paired with these pictures. Because life is good, and because I’m doing it right, I think, and because if you had to read that, you deserve to see these.)