The Twicer

I've become the thing I've always dreaded. Well, that's a lie. I've never really dreaded becoming it. I didn't even know it existed until a few years ago when I even discovered blogging. "IT" is the twice-weekly blogger.

That's right, I'm a lame blogger who can't pull random thoughts out of my sad little brain and condense them into semi-coherent passages more than twice a week. That's OK, though. I'm all right with it. I can accept my blogger failings. Sometimes I just have to be outside gardening when the Northwest weather finally turns warm and sunny after nine months of rain and gloom. Other times I may be spending too much time looking for things I don't really need on ebay, or getting caught up on the latest with "Poor Little Lindsay! I blame her father for this!" and other celeb gossip.

I only hope that you, Gentle Reader, can accept my failings as well. Sob, please accept me as I am!

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Another "twicer" event is the Cleaning Lady. (Cue that "angels singing" or choir sound). She and her sister come to my humble abode twice a month to keep me and my family from living in squalor. Believe me, it's a very small price to pay, at any price she'd charge. Hubby didn't even give me a hard time about it, since I am the "housewife" and that was on the list of job requirements when I signed up for the job. (Wait, you other housewives didn't get a list of housewife job requirements? Hmm. I'll have to double-check that.)

Anyway, twice a month, I scramble around the house, tidying up on Cleaning Day Eve. That's one of the tricks* of life -- you have to clean for the cleaning people. See, if they show up with the house in its normal state -- toys everywhere, Hubby's laundry basket in the middle of the bedroom, shoes lying around here and there, dishes piled in the sink and on the counter, laundry piled up in the laundry room -- they can't clean the stuff they came to clean. So, I have to pick everything up and put it away, or sometimes just hide it in piles in the closets.

That was what I did on Monday night, Cleaning Day Eve. I got the rooms tidy (not clean. There's a big difference between tidy and clean!) and even had the check written and on the console table, ready to go. Now, I wouldn't have to scramble at all on Tuesday morning!

Tuesday, I got up early, showered and dressed, and got the boys their breakfasts with plenty of time to spare. It was looking like I might actually get Hutton to speech therapy on time, until I remembered that I hadn't picked up his nighttime diaper and pajama bottoms from the bathroom floor that morning, which I wanted to do so the Cleaning Lady didn't have to touch them. (Hutton's morning routine, which he often forgets and needs to be reminded to "Go use the potty and get dressed!", is to get up, go use the potty, leave his pajama bottoms and nighttime diaper on the bathroom floor, put his pajama top in his hamper, and get dressed in the clothes I laid out for him the night before.)

WARNING: CRAPISODE TO FOLLOW! (I posted this after reading Kim's blog today.)
The diaper left on the bathroom floor was dirty with poop, but no poop was still in the diaper. I looked in the toilet. Wow! What a big step for Hutton! He dumped the poop into the toilet! (Now I just need him to stop pooping into his diaper at night. That makes for smelly laundry the next day, believe me!) Unfortunately, he also put in a bunch of baby wipes as well and the toilet was clogged. The poop alone probably would have done it, and it may have. I didn't actually see him put baby wipes in the toilet. The Cleaning Lady was due in 20 minutes. To plunge and be late to speech therapy, or just leave a note, and still be late? I left a note saying, "Do not touch! Toilet clogged. Will plunge later."

And we were late. But at least I had a nice excuse to give the speech therapist! Nothing shows respect for someone's time like a good poop excuse.


*I was going to use the word "ironies" here, but after the Alanis Morrisette song, I really hate the misuse of the word irony or ironic, and I couldn't think of the right word. So, if any of your human thesauruses can think of the right word, please let me know!

For Your Reading Pleasure, a Bad Mommy Story

Today started relatively well. I slept in until 9, the boys got up and entertained themselves without destroying anything for an hour or so, the cat only meowed loudly enough to wake me 2 or 3 times...Good morning.

Hutton ate his lunch with plenty of time for us to go catch the bus, and Harrison said he wanted to walk to the bus stop with us, so as I was getting him dressed, I thought Hutton was ready to go. We walked out of the front door, and were starting up the street when Hutton announced he needed to use the bathroom.

"Are you sure? We don't really have enough time."

Hutton, now screaming and crying, "Use the potty!"

OK. Number one, we're not going to be able to get him back inside, have him use the potty, and get back to the bus stop before the bus arrives.

Number two, in his newsletter from Kindergarten last Friday, the teacher announced that they no longer refer to it as "using the potty". Now that they're big Kindergartners, they say, "using the bathroom."

So, I quickly tell Hutton to say, "Use the bathroom," as I'm dragging him through the driveway. He falls down on the gravel and his screaming increases, as I try to herd him and his brother into the house and towards the potty bathroom. As Hutton pees and cries, I notice his dirty, scraped up palm from falling in the driveway, and feel bad, but continue to be the Bitchy Mom that I am, and tell him angrily that next time he needs to use the potty bathroom BEFORE we leave the house to catch the bus. I hurry him through pulling up his pants and washing his hands, still bitching about the fact that we're going to be late, and run up the street, carrying Harrison and half-dragging Hutton behind me. Hutton is crying that he wants me to hold him, because his hand probably hurts, but that isn't part of the Bitchy Mom's plan.

The bus arrives as we're still 50 yards away. When we finally reach the bus and I strap Hutton into his carseat, he is still upset about falling down, and probably about being dragged into the house, dragged down the street, etc. The bus driver cheerily tells me we don't need to run next time. Plenty of time. I give her my best fake smile and hustle Harrison off the bus, so we can walk home with me all sweaty and frazzled and Harrison happily pointing out the cars and horses we pass.

Did I mention I have a very short fuse?

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So, after Harrison and I have eaten lunch and I have returned to Stable Mom mode, I call to get myself an appointment for a haircut. Hubby watches Harrison, or rather, lets "Curious George" babysit him, and I drive off to enjoy an hour's peace, and try to return to a look that doesn't say, "Cousin It with purple hair". As I'm enjoying my peace in the hair salon, I notice a little bag in the hairstylist's drawer with the words, "For Your Pleasure" written on it. It's in a drawer with a bunch of shavers and curling irons, but for some reason, I don't associate hand-held appliances and the words "For Your Pleasure" with getting my hair cut.