I wrote this earlier today, but had to set it aside and come back to it later. I was in the middle of a stressed moment, and I was worried that it had a desperate tone to it. I don't want to sound desperate.
I said the magic words super early this morning.
Usually they are reserved for mid-afternoon at the earliest, but I just couldn't do it anymore. By 9am you could stick a fork in me ~ I was SO done.
"Would you like to watch Yo Gabba Gabba, Maggie," I asked.
The response was wildly enthusiastic, as usual. She snapped to attention, did a pivot turn and ran (as much as a toddler can without bending her knees) towards the television set squealing with delight.
Parenting purists, or whatever those annoying people are called, are probably paling and feeling faint. But yes, at times I do use television as a babysitter. THERE. I admitted it.
And this was whole-heartedly, 100%, one of those times.
Chris has been out of town for four days, hence the lack of a "mental" break from the children. They are ALL mine. ALL my responsibility.
Some mothers revel in this kind of shiz and rise to the occasion, but honestly, it sort of freaks me out. I mean, it is totally up to ME to keep them healthy and ultimately, alive.
If I happened to check out and say "adios," or pull a Thelma-minus-Louise routine, there would be serious implications.
And folks, it's only 10:02 a.m.
And I am feeling a bit Thelma-ish day today.
I don't know how single mothers do it. Really. They are rarely given the props that they so desperately deserve. Seriously, they rock.
I was a single mother for a while and I fully believe that God blessed me with a dream of a child. Calvin was such a good baby and toddler. The "eleven and twelve year old" Calvin? Ehhh, not so much. But he has rebounded nicely and I couldn't be prouder of him.
Anywho, I hadn't necessarily recovered from yesterday. By the time Maggie went to bed at 7pm, my entire body was buzzing with the uncomfortable anxiety that precipitates the necessity of me popping a pill.
The anxiety was triggered by several things. For one, Maggie lost my driver's license.
I noticed how nicely she was playing with my wallet and made the erroneous decision not to mess with a good thing. Hey, she was quiet and occupied with something that wouldn't kill or maim her.
I let it go on for a little while, but when I looked at her again, I realized that she was taking each card out of the wallet and sliding them under the refrigerator.
"NO! No, no, no, no, no," I shrieked as I ran over and very quickly gathered the scattered contents as fast as I could.
Upon further investigation, I very quickly realized (as I got the wooden spoon out with the long handle) that there was no room to fit the handle. There was barely enough room to get a credit card under, no WONDER she was so quiet.
I fetched a long, serrated knife, slid it under the appliance and began fishing. I retrieved an insurance card, my hair stylist's business card, my Flagler County library card. I couldn't feel anything else and all of the credit/debit cards were accounted for.
It wasn't until later I realized that my driver's license was gone.
This wouldn't be SUCH a big deal, but I find that I am asked for my driver's license so much more in Florida than in Iowa. Got a doctor's appointment? Need your driver's license. Want to sign a kid up for something? Anything? Need your driver's license. They take proper identification seriously in Florida.
Oh, and I have "SEE I.D." emblazoned on the back of every single plastic form of payment that I carry in my wallet.
Shortly after the wallet incident, Maggie decided she was going to empty a cabinet so she could climb inside. Most of the contents weren't breakable, but she found the one thing that was and tossed it out onto the ceramic tile.
It was a large, Pyrex baking dish with a lid. Was. It is currently in our trash can in no less than 1,000 pieces.
Not even 30 minutes later, she had opened the dishwasher, found a salad plate to toss at the startled dog.
And so it went.
As I have been writing over the past hour or so, she broke another plate. As I was preparing her evening cereal, I heard the "clink" of a toilet seat and then some splashing.
"NO! No, no, no, no no," I shrieked, running to the boys' bathroom. Doors are supposed to be closed in our house, but the bathroom door was somehow left open.
But she was quiet for a moment.
Nothing good comes from a quiet 18 month old.