A Week in the Life of a Harried Mom

Oy vey, what a week. Want to know how it went? Here’s a summary:

One very rude awakening when Monday barged in and we had to pry ourselves out of bed to shrieks from alarm clocks. Two weeks off of school got me used to waking up when I pleased…

One trip to the dermatologist where he froze something off of my nose. First it looked like a gooey white booger, and now it’s morphing into a textured yellow raisin. I put a little concealer on it but it still looks weird.

One suggestion from my daughter that I sew a miniature curtain to cover my funky nose. I’m known for my unusual clothing choices but I’m not convinced about the nose curtain.

One trip to Children’s Hospital for dental surgery. One tired mom glad that this is behind us.

One very good book being read.

Two excavations of kids’ bedrooms. Many layers of artifacts found.

Two trips to the gym.

Two exhausted shoulders.

Two library books I can’t wait to read.

 

Three very loud, wiggly, often arguing, quite funny kids making messes.
 

Three naked Barbie dolls in the bathtub. It looks like one of Hugh Hefner’s grotto parties.

 

 

Four days of winging the parenting on my own while Hubby was away on a business trip. (I really appreciate the women and men who are deployed for months at a time. Those who stay behind and hold down the fort at home have a major juggle on their hands.)

Five a.m. alarm clock buzzing eighteen inches from my son’s head. He didn’t wake up but I did—just long enough to shut it off, stagger back to bed and doze until 6:30. (The 5am alarm was from Christmas morning, because I said they couldn't go out until 5. How the alarm got turned on this week is an unsolved mystery.)

Six loads of laundry. Still more to do. None put away. What, are you kidding? Who has time for that?

Seven gigantic piles of dirty dishes, approximately one per day.

Eight threats made when video games were not turned off after the first few requests.

Nine new gray hairs—and that’s just in the last thirty minutes. This glamorous lifestyle of mine is taking its toll!

Ten toes that need massaging. (Hubby, are you reading this? Remember that contract you signed before leaving for your business trip? It stated that my feet would get massages daily and that you’d spend the rest of the month doing anything I asked. You don’t remember signing it? I saw you do it. In fact, I held the pen in your hand—you were a little drowsy at the time—and helped you sign it. It’s airtight.)