It was a crappy day in a crappy week. Granted, I have three kids, so most days are full of actual crap, but this one was also metaphorically a glistening pile of shit leaking out of a diaper onto my living room rug. It was only Tuesday, and I was ready to throw in the towel. Frankly, I am not sure why the day of the week ought to matter. It’s not like my weekends are any different from my weekdays. I wipe asses and clip nails and prepare meals and breastfeed and foster fine motor development and give each kid the 15 minutes a day of special time that assholes everywhere keep reminding me are so very important to making my kids feel special.
(An aside: could someone please explain to me the merits of making my kids feel special? Maybe they aren’t special. Maybe they are totally ordinary. Wouldn’t I be doing them some huge disservice by making them feel all unique? Some ninth-grade teacher will give them a C, which means “average,” and the whole caravansary will dissolve into thin air.)
The boys were climbing the walls. I went to take out the trash and had that thought we’re not supposed to have but we all do: “I could just keep walking.” Lilah is bizarrely angelic, making us wonder about mix-ups at the hospital, but even she was having a fussy day. I was snapping at the kids even as I considered the distinct possibility that my behavior might not be helping any of our moods.
I had to open the front door for something or another, although I am proud to report it was not to attempt an escape or to eject a child. And there, on the front step, was a box that must have been left at some point in the afternoon while I was preoccupied with a runny nose or sending Zach to the Unkindness Chair. And the return address was from New Orleans.
So, although it is mucho, mucho belated, I would like to publicly thank Painted Maypole for the Mardi Gras beads she sent last month, especially the incredibly long string of giant pink ones, which my sons miraculously have been sharing nicely for nearly four weeks. Those beads turned our afternoon around and entertained the boys for a good long time, allowing me to both nurse the baby and scrape Play Doh off of the underside of the kitchen table.
Of course, the next day sucked even worse. But the beads rock.
If you have not already done so, I would like to IMPLORE you to click on the button at the right (or RIGHT HERE) and go vote for me at the Bloggers’ Choice Awards. (And thanks to Vodka Mom for sending people to vote.) You see, I am nominated for The Blogitzer, which is for way smart writing, and Dooce is beating me. Now, I know she will win. She wins all of these things. But, if all of you go over there and register right now and vote for me, maybe for just one day I can surpass her. And that will be my fifteen minutes of feeling special.