Yesterday after Blueberry-palooza, a sweet reader and bloggy friend sent me a message complimenting me and encouraging me in my fun mothering-ness. And I was all "That is so kind! But oh dear. Now I'm going to have to have to drop some truth bombs to make sure everyone understands what really goes on 'round these parts." You see, I'm willing to be fun when I have other moms around to pick up my slack (yes at swim lessons and while picking blueberries and while going to the lake and while all the things. I tag along or we don't go), but I'm also a foolish stumbler. Still. Even after wrangling chil'rens for almost 13 years.
Let's just take today, shall we?
1) We were trying to do our morning thing (people waking up at random times, everyone eating a different breakfast, someone telling someone to give the chickens some dang water, someone spilling milk all over the foor....) and I was SURE we could get out the door by 10 to go grocery shopping. But look, it's 9:45 and I'm still in my pajamas! So I run to my room to throw on some clothes, Cecilia close behind as usual, and suddenly I hear the dude that is working on our laundry room say "Oh no, baby! No!" followed by a crash and some screaming. I careen down the hall (wasn't someone supposed to be watching Mary??? Someone = me) and see him standing at the end with a baby under one arm, MY BABY, and a broken snow globe, formerly made out of actual glass, in the other.
Nice, dweej. Real nice.
So in the last 7 days they've laid flooring, painted trim, jump started our van, and saved the baby from a trip to the ER? Oy.
2) So we make it to the store miraculously unscathed and half-way through the trip, as someone is reading the shopping list out loud to me at an extremely high volume and someone else is asking where the broken escalator is, I look down to see that the very same baby has somehow wrangled an avocado out of one of the produce bags and has LITERALLY GNAWED THROUGH THE DURABLE OUTER SKIN. There she is, sitting in the grocery cart, chomping down on an entire avocado as if it were an apple. A rough, ridiculous, black apple. Sthpeshul!
3) Yay, we've made it to the check out. We're loading the goodies back into the cart at the end. Lizzy looks at a sign on the wall advertising something called "Mr. Flavor" and hollers "Flava Flav!"
4) Now we're home. Everyone is safe. Or something. Until Cecilia says "No, Mary! You can't just leave!" and I come around the corner to find that someone had left both the front door and the storm door open and my 13 month old child is happily about to embark on the Great American Adventure, first stop: tumbling headlong off the front porch. But she didn't because I made it because her guardian angel is really picking up my slack today.
5) And just a few minutes ago, as I am writing this very post about being lame, I hear some scratchy scratchy noises and look near the pantry and see Ceci eating Raisin Bran straight out of the box. "I told you I needed a snack...."
So don't ever take advice from me, okay? Because wow...
HOLY MOLY. Just now. Ceci trying to use a marker to color a piece of paper while using the kitchen wall as her work surface. I better bounce before this place comes apart at the seams, yo.