TGIF, everyone! Remember how that used to mean something, before you had kids??
Yeah. Me neither.
(It’s funny to me how although I can often mix up my days of the week, I’ll never get to Friday and assume it’s any day other than Friday. That one is always correct in my mental calendar.)
Fridays always tend to stick out of the week because for most, they represent the promise of a weekend; two days away from the tedium of the workplace. Two days to relax, snack, perhaps nap. Maybe enjoy leisure activities. I’ve heard that people still do that…
If you’re not a SAHM, that is. You know, a Stay At Home Mom. SAHM I am. (Sorry dads. You can be a SAHD. But the acronym isn’t as fun to rhyme. And that’s… SAHD.)
In the case of the homemaking parent, weekends become the equivalent of your boss strolling past your desk, dropping a massive bunch of papers in a messy pile across your desk and lap, and saying, “I need this done. Yes, ALL of it. By Sunday night. And I’m assigning a crew to crumple the papers & yell while you work, m’kay?”
Ah, of course.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I do love spending time with my family. And there’s something to be said for the feeling that envelopes the house when all eight of us are ensconced inside, together.
It’s a feeling of…. love. Bonding. Fun*.
(*See also: INSANITY.)
One of my most difficult challenges on weekends is to strike an ideal balance between work and play. I want to enjoy my time while the kids and The Captain are home, yet, I also want them to,
not touch stuff. Like, at all.
Let me amend that. I don’t mind them touching stuff- after all, a house is to be lived in and all that- but I just don’t like them touching stuff that I then need to handle. You know, stuff like:
- dishes, forks, spoons
Although we do have chore assignments for the kids, the bulk of the supervision and delegating* (*See Also: YELLING) falls on me during weekends. The Captain handles transporting kids to and from soccer games, activities, etc. -you know, OUTSIDE WORLD things- while I hold the fort down and keep the plates spinning, and whatever other cliché fits the role of an overworked, harried momma. Even being extremely organized, it can still be difficult to coordinate it all and not feel like drop-kicking all family members out the door come Monday morning.
Chore Chart: Poor overworked #6 (baby), huh?
That brings me to today: Friday. As I’ve mentioned, I’m organized. Fairly efficient, too. So I decided that in preparation for a particularly busy weekend ahead, I’d crank into over-drive today and tackle several “to-do” items prior to the weekend actually beginning.
#2 immediately threw a wrench instantly into my hoped-for productivity by having the nerve to be sick this morning. So she stayed home. But thank God, her lungs were healthy enough to practice her clarinet. A LOT.
Once the other three were dropped off to school, I began by tackling a much-dreaded project: the clothing size transfer. Our garage contains the motherload of baby and child clothing, both genders, neatly stored in labeled bins. Once every few months I need to swap out small sizes of clothing for larger ones. Usually a weekend job, but I’m all about being efficient, right? Plus, #2 was home to hang out with #5 while I trotted back and forth between garage to house.
Except I forgot: I’m allergic to dust. Severely.
Except I forgot: our garage is really, really dusty.
Except I forgot: #2 stinks at supervising others, especially when distracted by clarinet.
So I stumbled into the house, sneezing and wheezing, toddler jeans spilling to the floor, to find #5 jubilantly smearing peanut butter on the table instead of the bread. Because the bread had already been eaten. Well not, eaten, so much as crumbled. Into breadcrumbs. On the floor.
I hastily jammed clothes into drawers. I frantically vacuumed. To the mournful wails of a clarinet. Still sneezing.
No matter. Tasks will get done. Then came the great debate….
Benedryl. Latin for, “good coma.”
After showing up at #4’s preschool looking like a red-eyed crack addict, I HAD to do it. So I popped two Benedryl, still determined to make good time while I could.
Two other weekend tasks- dropping off prescriptions at CVS, and picking up The Captain’s work pants at the dry cleaner’s. I high-tail it over to CVS, wait on the drive-thru line to drop off the slips. Decide to duck in to buys soup for sick #2, who had thankfully left the clarinet at home.
But that’s ok. Because #4 somehow had a KAZOO to entertain us with while on line.
I then duck into the store to grab soup (with three kids in tow. Sans kazoo). Rush home, noticing the gas gauge on Empty. Oops. Pull into dry cleaner parking lot. Reach for my wallet to find…
it’s at CVS. Of course.
Three kids back into the car for a return trip to CVS, only this time… on fumes. Because when you don’t have a wallet, you can’t…. pay for gas.
Traffic. Gas tank flashing ominously. #2 insisting we WILL be stuck; she knows it. Verrry stressful….
But don’t worry. #4 made certain to provide more kazoo music to serenade us with.
Back to CVS with the three, to do the walk of shame. Back into the car. Back to the dry cleaner’s. Back home. And then…
Benedryl works SO well. It really does. My allergies don’t even bother me anymore. Probably because:
I’m curled in a tiny fetal ball, whimpering in exhaustion on the couch, while the kids stomp Goldfish into the carpets, spill milk, and make mayhem.
TGIF: Tell God I’m F* d!!
© Copyright 2013 Six Pack Mom, All rights Reserved. Written For: Six Pack Mom