I had a door knocker come to my house earlier, it’s not even 9am on a Sunday mind you, and seem shocked that I’m still in my PJs. I didn’t bother to put on clothes to answer the door, whatever it was that he was selling I wasn’t buying but how about a run down of why I’m still in my PJs.
At 10pm after finishing some study I let DH know I’m going to bed. He follows me and gives me some important information about his corps is being being downsized maybe and he might either be away 8-9 months a year every year or leave the army. No idea what he’s going to do or what he wants to do. End of conversation.
Of course I then have an awesome nights sleep.
At 1.45am the baby wakes up. Being that it’s April 1st he plays this awesome joke where he falls asleep for 10 minutes wakes up needs a couple of minutes soothing back to sleep for 10 minutes wakes up couple minutes of soothing. This goes on until 3.30am when he finally falls asleep at the breast. I transfer him. He stays asleep. I have now been awake so long I can’t switch off my brain.
Finally fall asleep shortly before my husbands alarm goes off. Yup he works on a Sunday.
I fall asleep again to be woken up at 6, the toddler is awake and DH needs to leave for work. I stumble out of bed and lay down on the couch.
Wake up to toddler smacking me in the face with a spatula telling me “baby wake mummy get baby.”
Stumble up the hall and get baby out of bed, back to the couch and onto the boob. Wake up to baby smacking me in the face and laughing hysterically.
Coffee. “Mummy give me milk,” “mummy I want bread,” and generally crying and whinging all about the place.
Make toast, toddler has a melt down because I use the open jar of honey instead of the full new sealed one. They’re the same apart from one being a quarter empty (no its not three quarters full I’m not in the mood for glass half full half empty shit, it’s a quarter empty and that’s that).
She agrees to eat the toast in front of the TV. I pull the high chair in from outside, the baby is such a messier eater that I hose the high chair down of an evening.
Pop him in the high chair and put his toast on the tray. Turn to my coffee, turn around and he’s half out the high chair. Put him back in and hand him a sippy cup of water and some grapes. Finally he’s eating and happy. The toddler is eating and…
“Uh oh, it’s wet.”
She’s split that fudging cup of milk on herself. My house has an almost constant smell of milk because no matter what she always manages to spill it.
Clean up the spill and turn around to see toddler mashing grapes into his high chair tray. Get him out put him on the floor to play and drink a few sips of coffee.
He’s pulling out Daddy’s DVDs. Now to give you an idea of what I’m up against here this is my husbands DVD collection.
And while they’re packed in there pretty tight there are 3 spots where tiny little baby fingers manage to get movies out. And he does many times a day. Over and over and over.
So this morning I start running a sink of water (“movies are not toys baby, out to the toy room”), a few more sips of coffee (“movies are not toys baby, out to the toy room”), wash some dishes (“movies are not toys baby, out to the toy room”), and then tend to the toddler who wants more toast (“oh look your brother didn’t finish his, here you go”), and finish the dishes.
8am and Mike the Knight comes on, awesome another day with this crap song stuck in my head.
Take my supplements, thank god this is a habit or else I swear my body would just shut down all together.
Find toddler and baby putting clean washing back into the drier, usher them out of the laundry, shut the door and swear to deal with that later.
8.30am rolls around and there’s a knock at the door. You’re selling something, who knows what, you started with are you still in your PJs and I decided I wasn’t going to listen.
It takes a lot of work to look this crappy every day. It takes hours of overnight wakings, a hundred redirections, heaps of listening carefully and interpreting (seriously you playing toddler translator on minimal sleep) and it takes every ounce of energy not to pack myself up and hitch a ride to the nearest funny farm.
Not really, I love my kids, I love my family, I love being a mum despite it’s endless challenges.
But seriously 8.30am and I’m still in my PJs? Why so shocked, I’ll probably still be in them at midday.
Who door knocks at 8.30am any way?