So, as I mentioned, La is effectively off duty this week due to a work conference, leaving me to be a mostly solo parent (although, I should point out that I am grateful she is still here in some respects, as it’s saved me in a couple of respects) . . .I was going to write a post about how Monday night might have proven my assertion about wanting to be a SAHM incorrect, but then Tuesday happened and it was no longer a wry story rife with symbolism.
Sucks when life gets in the way of your cleverly crafted anecdotes.
But, still worth mentioning that Monday night was RUFF.
After picking A up from the sitter and driving him, crying, back home through traffic (he usually gets picked up earlier in the day even on days when he is at the sitter, so he was generally uphappy) I walked in the house to find that two of the three dogs had busted down the baby gate and found a box of donut holes left on the counter and, of course, had eaten them all. Since the donut holes had been a potluck contribution and not my personal stash, I tried to think through A) how many of them were chocolate B)how many, in total, had been left and C) what the possible impact on a 70 Lb bulldog and a 50 lb spaniel was likely to be in that scenario. I opted for ‘wait and see’ rather than immediate freak out.
I set A down to change my clothes and he immediately lost his shit. It was clear that whatever I did, I would be doing it with Ansel in my arms or strapped to me. I wanna give a shout out to my ring sling at this point, which allowed me to cook a meal not totally devoid of nutritional value – a real feat considering we hadn’t been grocery shopping in a week and a half – while wearing my wiggly 11 month old. Once dinner was ready, I put A in his seat and put some food in front of him, then got my plat ready.
The kid took 1 bite and then projectile vomited once . . .twice . . .three times, all over himself (of course), me (well, duh) and ALL THREE DOGS. Whatever else may be said of my son, it will not be that he doesn’t have great aim. I sat for a moment, trying to decide what to do first – wipe the puke off the bulldog’s back? Unbuckle Ansel from the high chair? Strip myself naked? But then he started wailing again, which forced the issue.
I took him into the bathroom to start getting his bath/shower (a large rubbermaid tub in the shower, since we have no bathtub in our house) ready, piling his pukey clothes in a corner, all the while knowing full well that the dogs were doing the clean up in the kitchen, if you know what I mean. I put him in his tub, and he cried more. So, I took my clothes off and got in the shower with him, trying to get us both clean while holding him. He wouldn’t even let me put him down to put my underwear on once out of the shower, so my look that night was a short robe and pukey half wet hair.
I was finally able to get him in his pajamas and, though it took a VERY long time, he did finally fall asleep. I went back for shower #2, to fully wash the puke out of my hair, and finally arrived back at the scene of the crime. I put the high chair cover, the clothes, and a rug in the washing machine, mopped the floor and wiped the table down. I looked over at my dinner, forgotten, and realized I had no desire to eat it. I opted for a half a pint of ice cream and a glass of reisling. And my own tears.
So, that was Monday.
Yesterday, I decided to take a comp day rather than even attempt to ‘work’, given my harrowing evening and knowing I wasn’t going to get any reprieve.
But, despite Monday feeling like a lesson from the Universe to be careful what you wish for, Tuesday was a pretty stellar stay at home mom day. We got up and made coffee, and played with some toys. We got dressed and did laundry, folded diapers and cleaned up the kitchen, went to the grocery store and the bank, came back home and did more laundry, reorganized some shelves in the bedroom to be more baby friendly/safe, vacuumed, dusted, and played some more. I enjoyed my day, got to dance with Ansel, and got some shit done.
And it wasn’t that yesterday proved that staying home would work/be awesome/not suck, or that it erased Monday night in all it’s vomit filled glory, it just reminded me that shit can be hard or good no matter what the logistics are.
I’m reminded of a really lovely thing that my best friend’s dad once told me: “Don’t let the metaphor become the narrative, Andie.” Don’t get so caught up in what it all means that you forget about the actual story. It doesn’t always mean something. In fact, it usually doesn’t.