And I didn’t have to lift my shirt except to feed the baby

             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.

12 responses to “And I didn’t have to lift my shirt except to feed the baby

  1. you should know that I always think you are special. So there.

  2. glad they made your crappy day less crappy. 😉 and those pink ones begged to be put in the box going to your boys. 😉

    I will go vote for you. Because I have to say… I read Dooce for a while and frankly could not figure out what all the fuss is about. So you are in my reader, and she is not.

  3. I recently watched a movie where the lead female says “so you have a son. He must be very special. Everyone’s kids are so special it makes you wonder where all the ordinary grown-ups come from”. Fantastic quote, although obviously my kids are still special.

    And I voted, because even if I didn’t love your blog, a comment from a new person brightened up my crappy strep-throat-cursed day, and I don’t care how pathetic that is.

    And if by ‘fresh’ blog you mean obviously made up by someone who can barely turn a computer on and still can’t figure out how to use seventy-eight percent of the features, well, I’m your girl.

    Now I’m going to try to figure out how to add you on Goodreads. I’ll let you know how it goes. 🙂

  4. Voting DONE! 🙂

  5. Margaret Diehl

    You spend time alone with your kids because they want to know you one on one. It’s not only about who they are. You’re their mom–the most mysteriously wonderful person in the world for a few years. Learning how to be intimate is a skill like any other, except better than most.

    I voted for you.

  6. I voted for you.

    And I totally hear you on the weekend vs. weekday thing. But there is a critical difference in our house, and that is that (at least some of the time) Daddy is home on the weekends. Having backup really does make things better. 😉

  7. Shhhh the truth is we are all ordinary but we tell our kids they are extraordinary to us, and we tell them they are special just in case it motivates them to rise above our average ranks. 😉

    Isn’t it awesome, when the little things pop in to brighten? Painted Maypole is great.

    Oh and now I read Margaret’s comment and it’s waaaayyyyy better than mine (plus, true and wise) so I rescind my satire and irony and echo ditto her. 🙂

  8. I’m glad that package arrived when it did. The “unkindness” chair reminds me of the “thinking chair” in my children’s kindergarten classes. When I asked them what people think about, they said, “I dunno. Birthdays?”

  9. I am off to vote for you!
    I love that you can draw lines between metaphorical crap and actual crap and make it feel like really smart writing, and that you have such well rounded, thought out opinions on important issues. You deserve that award….and your 15 minutes. 🙂

  10. I’ll vote for you (waiting for registration email now). I don’t even read Dooce.

  11. who’s dooce? ok, of course i know her blog. but i read your YOURS.

  12. 1. Voted.
    2. Can I fax you a big ole frosty adult beverage? Do they have that technology yet?
    3. *hugs*