Tuesday, February 9, 2010

The Truth about Lydia

I deal with the same crap pretty much every day. And while I would not change my situation for anything, I am tired of the crap. I am embarrassed by it. But collectively, I have come to believe I am defined by it. In a nutshell, I am crap. So I have decided to compile some of it into a pile list:

Some Unfortunate Truths about Lydia, Mom of Three and Perpetual Trainwreck

  • No matter how early I get up, my morning always degenerates into a stress-filled, clusterf$#k of lateness. Always. With the last ten minutes that I am in the house whizzing by in what seems like 20 seconds with me screeching to PUT ON YOUR SHOES and my kids stomping around all mad and then having to drive like a maniac to get to school before the first bell. Horrific. Every day.
  • My children are incapable of putting toothpaste onto a toothbrush without spraying it all over, not just the sink, but the entire bathroom and also themselves. On their shirts, in their hair, and even on the ceiling a couple of times. I mean everywhere. Except their teeth. I know this will happen. And yet, I get annoyed every time.
  • The baby appears to be cutting new teeth ALL THE TIME. And therefore NOT sleeping. She grows new molars like my geriatric, popsicle-stealing dog sheds his fur - prolifically and with no break in between bouts. I now actively resent each new molar.
  • It's February, so at least one person in my house is bound to be sick. And if one or more of the sick people are kids, the Cap'n will have a major work emergency. Leaving me to deal with the entire cycle of illness by myself. And even I know it is in bad taste to take three sick kids into Trader Joe's for the sole purpose of buying Charles Shaw Shiraz. I sometimes do it anyway, because I am over dealing with the cycle alone and completely sober.
  • The Cap'n's jokes are still hilarious to me, even after hearing them 12,436 times. Example: a Starbucks carmel machiatto is a Ralph Macchio. He will order me a Venti Ralph Macchio and then say "Thanks a Latte" with a completely straight face. It. Is. So. Awesome.
  • I am always behind on housework. I am bad at housework. I think it's because I have attention deficit or some other procrastation-related disorder when it comes to doing things that I hate. Like scrubbing toilets. Therefore, my house is not tidy. Except for when we are having company. Then the pre-visitor cleaning frenzy starts. I hand over the kids to the Cap'n, get my bitch on, and clean the whole enchilada [editor's note: not me, that would be gross. - Kate] from top to bottom. It stays clean approximately 37 seconds. Which may be the other reason I am bad at housework. Because of the soul-sucking futility.
  • Also, my house is not only messy but is decorated as if it were a demented preschool. It is horrifying. The "art" on my walls is held up by scotch tape.
  • I wear cheap black t-shirts almost everyday. Why you ask? Because black is slimming? Because the Cap'n doesn't appreciate the need for a wardrobe line-item in the family budget? No. Because I spill coffee on myself. All the time. Like maybe every day. Just ask Kate - it drives her crazy. And black cotton hides coffee stains better than anything else.
  • Also, I use my small children as an excuse to wear cheap, coffee-stained shirts. The kids are sticky and dirty and rub their noses on me. So at 8am I am clean. By 8:15, I have coffee, boogers and apple juice staining the "shelf" of my shirt. So why buy nice things when they last about four wearings? After that, the only thing my old shirts are good for is wiping up messes and waxing the car.
  • I am perpetually exhausted but, oddly, never too tired to watch Twilight on cable. Last night the Cap'n asked me how many days in a row I was going to watch at least some part of Twilight on cable. I was like, how about every day? Forever. Or until the rest of the movies come out and are on cable and then they will run on our TV in a never-ending loop. Of awesomeness.
  • I have become the kind of mother I used to make fun of in NJ where I grew up. There we had a lot of mama's boys - proud mama's boys. Men who would live at home until they were thirty, their mom cooking and cleaning for them, with this weird co-dependence that seemed completely whacked. Like if you said anything against their sainted mother they would freak out and start ramming things with their Camaros. Now I see a young man of 30, living at home and praising his mother's cooking and I think: "So, he loves his mother. He appreciates all that she does for him. As he should. That's beautiful. Of course, nobody will ever love him like his mutha. Whaddya talking about? He's a GOOD BOY and he loves his mutha. There ain't nothing wrong with that, so shut the hell up." Sigh. What have I become?
  • I no longer love my dog the way I used to. I am ashamed of this. But he just sits there, shedding and breathing his foul breath all over me and knocking the baby over with his tail. And it's like he lives to start barking or howling every time the baby has started a REM sleep cycle. And he continues to raid the trash of the most disgusting things he can find and then eat them next to my side of the bed. And that is modeling bad behavior for the baby who is now trying to do the same thing. Things have gotten so bad that last week Hawk looked at him and said: "Woodygodamit! Stop barking!" I am a bad mother to small children and dogs.
  • I used to be able to shake things off. I could always "let it go". Now I hold on to everything as if I'm made of velcro. I fixate. I ruminate. I seethe. I act crazy. These characteristics do not contribute to good mental health. And if I talk about it, it only makes me want to talk about it more. Which doesn't really make the whole fixate thing any better. The only thing that does seem to help is this blog. I am so grateful for it. I am much less of a b*tch thanks to Rants from Mommyland. It gives me something sort of healthy and productive to get all wierd about.

Well, there it is. I hope you feel better about yourselves, mommies. Sigh... Don't judge me. I can't help how I am. But guess what? By this time next year, my commitment to vanity will have heaped self-improvement all over the dang place and I will practically be Gwenyth Paltrow. Then you can judge me.

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