Sometimes I have a day. You know. One of THOSE days. Where the hours fly past at a whirlwind pace and by the time the dust settles I can’t even believe everything that’s happened and that DAMN, this parenting schtick is hard.

We’re all friends here, right? Well, since we are, I’m going to share an email I sent to my girls about a day I recently had. You know. A DAY.

(I’ve starred out the million curse words so as not to taint your image of me. Or something.)

Ladies,

A little background: I am on a contract position that was SUPPOSED to go until October, but due to situations outside of my manager’s control, my contract is ending on the 29th of this month. You know, IN TWO WEEKS. Also, I just started two weeks ago. ANYWAY…

So, now I remember what full time work feels like:

Up at 6am after being up for two hours overnight NOT because of the baby (for once), but because of a pounding headache and sore throat that has carried through till morning.
Shower and throw on clean clothes and flip flops (pack work shoes). Hair in a bun. But, earrings, so hey, FANCY.
Wake, wash, dress, feed and pack the kids into the Jeep and send them off with husband.
Pour coffee. Put on makeup and jump in the car at 7:30am. Forget coffee.
Get to work. Work all day in an uncomfortable environment because well, OBVIOUSLY.
12:45pm leave work for “lunch” which just means go to Joann’s to get favors for toddler’s birthday party.
Eat a Snickers bar in the car on the way back to the office.
Leave at 4:45pm. Go grocery shopping at two different stores to stay within ridiculous budget.
Speed to daycare to get there for 5:50pm (they close at 6pm). Fetch baby, who will NOT let you pack up her stuff without holding her. Go into toddler’s room who is engrossed in a farm game and does NOT WISH TO LEAVE. Pack her stuff, try to hustle her out, she flops on the floor in hysterics. Baby starts wailing. It’s 6pm. We are the last people there. Bribe toddler with treats (you know, to reward her STELLAR behavior) to get her to the car.
Throw graham crackers at children as you drive home while talking on your cell phone to recruiter to set up interviews for the following week. WINNING all kinds of safety and parenting awards.
Get home at 6:15pm. Change baby’s diaper. Throw her in highchair with milk while toddler cries because she wants to PLAY OUTSIIIIIIDE. Force husband to start grill because OMG FEED THESE CHILDREN NOW.
Put groceries away while chucking cheese and deli turkey at STARVING BABY. Swear at crying cat.
When husband asks if the salad is ready to go with our hotdogs, try to resist sarcastic response (and fail, sigh), grit teeth and tell him to put them on the grill and YOU’LL MAKE IT NOW.
Feed toddler strawberries and a hotdog and then also feed baby strawberries because OMG MUST HAVE EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW I’M STARVING DON’T LET ME STARVE DON’T YOU EVEN LOVE ME?!
Make salad while children eat. Realize missing key ingredient. F*** it. Open a beer.
Wash up baby and give her to husband to deal with while sitting with toddler who is now creating a play with pieces of hotdog and straw from juice box. Inhale hotdog and sh***y salad.
Take toddler outside to spin around the driveway on new trike from auntie for eating all of her dinner. Water flowers.
Bring wailing toddler inside (She wants to play OOUUUUTSIIIIIDEEEE!) and realize it’s 7:30pm. Run bath for toddler, and instruct husband to get milk for baby while you change a diaper, giving baby medicine and putting pajamas on her.
Encounter sneak poop diaper, yell to husband for backup: HELP! TURN TUB OFF BEFORE IT OVERFLOWS!!!
Husband turns off water and chases toddler around in game of hide and seek, much to the delight of toddler but thwarting your effort to herd toddler into bathroom, get undressed, go potty and GET IN THE MOTHERF****** TUB.
Get milk for baby.
Trade children with husband. He puts baby to bed, you give toddler a bath.
For a half hour because LA LA LAAAAAA SHE’S IN THE TUB AND I CAN SURF THE WEB ON MY PHONE AND DRINK SOME SIPS OF MY BEEEEER… and then clean the bathroom.
Dry toddler, pullup, brush teeth, floss, lotion, jammies, downstairs for a show while you:
unpack daycare bag, empty dishwasher, fill dishwasher, clean up kitchen, clean up dining room, get coffee ready and sweep the floor.
Remind husband that it’s his turn for bedtime and that it’s 8:35 so…
Give wailing toddler milk as bribe to OMFG LET YOUR FATHER READ YOU A G** DAMNED BOOK, PLEASE.
Pour generous glass of wine.
Make lunches for tomorrow. Pack daycare bags. Set out clothes.
9pm: go downstairs. Clean up playroom. Vacuum because who the f*** knows what’s on that rug.
Feed pain in the ass cat.
9:20pm: WRITE THIS EMAIL.

DISCLAIMER: I do try to feed my children healthier food than hotdogs. My little one? She’d eat anything you give her. Broccoli? Yes! Kale? SURE! Grass-fed poultry? DON’T MIND IF I DO! The three-year-old? Well, let’s just say thank God for The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog, because now we can add hot dogs to her list of five acceptable foods. Sigh.

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