Well, we’re past the halfway point of Taxman’s Great Southern Adventure, and it’s been fine, really.
So much easier than when the kids didn’t sleep through the night. Actually, the spare half of the bed has been kind of a revolving door–last night Miss M was in it from 2 (when she woke up to use the bathroom) to 4; AM woke me at 4 as he climbed into bed, and Miss M’s teeth grinding was going full force and hell, NO! I am not going to listen to that when there is another perfectly fine bedroom at our disposal. But these are really minor disruptions compared to years past, plus I can loll in bed until 7:00 in the morning!*
During the hardest parts of my day, 7 to 8 in the morning and 3:30 to 7 in the afternoon/evening, Taxman is rarely available to me anyway. I am fleeing to my in-laws’ for Shabbat rather than face an entire day with no respite and no PBS Kids. (Plus: Chicken soup and homemade matzah balls.)
Today’s troubles stand on their own.
We managed to get everyone out the door this morning, and I even got cooperation from Miss M when I told her to please please please put her books on the shelf so our cleaning lady could find the floor. It took her a solid 20 minutes, so I made her get dressed before breakfast. Remarkably, she threw only a minor fit and got dressed pretty quickly.
AM had a hysterical crying jag when his babysitter showed up, in a page lifted from the 2 year old’s manual It’s Never Too Early to Try to Manipulate Your Mother. Poor baby. If only he were my first child I might feel a mote of sympathy, but he’s not; I am not buying what he’s selling. At all. Good thing, too, because it’s a total sham. He was fine by the time he and the babysitter reached the elevator, a whopping 50 feet away. I could hear him turn off the tears.
Instead of working the whole time my babysitter was on duty (9:30-11:30), I went to the gym, where I proceeded to flagellate myself because this was my only chance to run between Monday and Sunday do a training run for the Race to Deliver. Excellent news: I can run for 3.75 miles at a speeds of up to 5.5 miles per hour and not die. Bad news: This race is four miles, and my training regimen will be majorly interrupted by the October onslaught of holidays.
At 2:30 I get a call from Miss M’s school. This is when caller ID is very, very bad. Those five seconds were LONG. She’s fine, BUT they had a fire drill in school today. Apparently, the very idea of a fire drill–the 10 minute warning was 10 full minutes to get hysterical–has not gotten any easier for her. Her teacher is concerned with her outright terror and her sensitivity to loud noises, and maybe we should get an OT evaluation? Sigh. It was coming from a place of love, at least, and one of the assistant teachers sat out on the playground with her, so she wasn’t in the building when the drill happened, and she drew a picture and dictated her worries on paper.
This afternoon she was bonkers, though, after mixing it up with her friend A and A’s 2 1/2 year old sister, T. Their mom is my mommy friend, and we had a 4:15 rendezvous here at Chez Tired. For some reason nobody played really well today. There was a lot of bickering and pushing and stealing of Rummikub tiles. Finally they were doing one of their skits using four little plastic chairs and pretending to go somewhere. (The chairs usually represent some sort of vehicle.) T was sitting on A’s lap; A then kind of dropped her, accidentally, and she fell. Everyone was ok. But five minutes later Miss M intentionally tipped AM’s chair (with him in it) over backwards, and he hit his head on the floor. She was looking right at me when she did it.
My voice immediately found that register that is most appropriate to people being exorcised. Honestly, I’m shocked the cocker spaniel in 2B didn’t find his way over here. I started shrieking and sent her to her room so I could deal with AM, who was shocked and sobbing. I scooped him up and said “Hey, that was some excellent parenting, don’t you think?”
“I do it all the time,” she said. “Then I feel guilty all day for reacting like that.”
“I just don’t know what she’s thinking. It’s like her brain can’t conceive what an appropriate course of action is. Or isn’t.” Of course, she bought my negative attention for a low, low price. I am a dumbass. But this is well established.
Anyway, AM was a peach once I secretly slipped him a freshly baked oatmeal raisin cookie (officially: only for Shabbat or Rosh Hashana). Miss M lost her book and TV privileges for the rest of the night, plus dessert for tomorrow night. That’s going to be fun.
I desperately wanted pizza for dinner, but Miss M won’t eat it, nor anything else that has been within range of marinara sauce. Killjoy. So I made the kids French toast, heard a lot of crying during bath time (Miss M wanted to bathe alone; AM loves the bathtub and found it hard to wait), and talked Miss M down from her tree when I went to brush her hair. She didn’t want braids. I hadn’t even mentioned braids, although I always prefer them to keep her mane vaguely neat overnight, so that was a little creepy.
I got my pizza–a broccoli calzone, actually; I changed my mind–when we reversed the playdate and I reveled in a delicious 40 minutes of time alone when I went to pick up my CSA share and visited the pizza shop. Came home mere minutes before bedtime.
Really, though, what a day! Please keep your fingers crossed for me tomorrow, when I face Friday dismissal time (1:15) and a rainy afternoon.
*Lately I get up to go to the gym at 5:45 M,W,F.