It’s freaking Monday, again. And like all Mondays, this one is exceptional. Just now, a stranger rang the doorbell two seconds after Lincoln fell asleep and not one, but two children streaked past me to open the door. I didn’t notice until they came to a halt with the door wide open how apt the term streaked was, since they were both naked from the waist down. Luckily, it was just a government agent in a full suit and tie on official business for the owner of our home so, you know. No biggie. Lincoln helpfully provided a chorus of blood-curdling screams to completely drown out everything the man was saying, and Liam capped off the short visit by peeing on my feet. The man left pretty quickly after that, probably to go adopt three adorable kids from the nearest orphanage after being so charmed by my offspring.
Is it just me, or do your children sometimes freak you the f#@$ out? My kids watched this episode of Jimmy Neutron today in which Carl turns into a vampire due to one of Jimmy’s usual experiments-gone-wrong (I love that show). But in the cartoon, he hypnotizes other people by staring at them with his eyes open really wide and saying, “look into my eeeeeeeyes!” in this totally creepy sing-songy tone. Predictably, my kids ignored all the other actually cute catchphrases from the show and have been walking around all morning going, “LOOK into my EEEEEEEYes”. It’s completely unsettling. I feel like I should call Supernatural and offer them some creep-tacular children to use in their next “creepy child” episode.
In other news, I really wish infants came with a remote control. It’s another absolutely beautiful day in Florida, so I’ve thrown all the windows wide open to let the breeze and the sunshine in. The problem with open windows, though, is that they let the breeze in and the sound of Lincoln’s screaming out. It would be one thing if he cried like a reasonable baby for the 1.2 minutes I leave him on the couch in between diaper changing and the next endless nursing session, but he doesn’t. He can’t possibly be starving to death, since I just nursed him before I changed his diaper, but you would think he was. Actually, based on the pitch, intensity and lack of breathing that accompany his screams, you’d think I was stabbing him to death with flaming knives. I swear, neighbors, I’m not. If I had a remote control, I could just dial that screaming down a little to the normal range in which human infants usually protest.
Also, the neighbors probably just heard me yell at Charlotte for dropping a full cup of milk all over my freshly mopped kitchen floor. It’s like the floor develops double the gravity after it’s been mopped, attracting everything that little hands are usually able to hold with no problem. Like that peanut butter sandwich that just followed the milk to land face-down next to the puddle. Awesome.
At least I managed to get in a run this morning. I’ve discovered a new tactic to help inspire me during my morning run, brought to me by The Walking Dead. It occurred to me last night that if the zombie apocalypse did happen anytime soon, we would be well and truly screwed, because neither the Ogre nor I are in good enough shape to sling 2 kids each over our shoulders and make a run for it. Short distances, maybe, but long distances? Forget about it. We’d be zombie chow in no time, adrenaline or no adrenaline. That’s a pretty good reason to take getting in shape seriously, in my book. So now, to inspire myself to run just a little further and just a little faster, I concoct imaginary scenes from The Walking Dead in my mind. Like, okay, Calah, that tree 300 yards ahead is the prison door, and there’s a zombie hoard just on your heels. You have to make it there before you can rest, or your throat is going to be gruesomely ripped out by zombies who will then proceed to eat you to death. Better hurry.
Isn’t that great motivation? (And yeah, I know I need therapy.) It worked a little too well this morning, though, because I came panting in the door, collapsed on the couch with a cup of coffee and the baby in my lap, and proceeded to fall dead asleep while he was eating. The Ogre stayed home an extra half-hour to let me take a shower, since he figured I needed it after walking into the living room to discover me snoring, and Liam and Charlotte finishing off my coffee. Obviously I had to take them to the park after that, since they were just a little wired beyond belief. I wish I could claim caffeine psychosis as the cause of the pants-abandonment that happened later, but sadly that’s a regular occurrence at Chez Alexander. What can I say? We’re keeping the neighborhood classy.
My attempts to slowly change my diet went really well last week. I was so motivated, in fact, that I made much healthier choices for lunch and breakfast than I normally do, in addition to not going back for seconds and only having one sweet thing per day. Then last night I ate half a bag of Hershey’s kisses. (Because chocolate, that’s why.) I did eat them all in one sitting, so that kind of counts, right? (I know, I know. Not even a little, Calah.) I’m back on the wagon today, though, and resisting the urge to make cookies. I know myself well enough to know that there are certain things I can have restraint about (like store-bought cookies, cupcakes, and cake) and certain things I can’t (like homemade cookies and Hershey’s kisses). It’s best for me to just not have the items in the latter category in the house when I’m trying to eat sensibly, as evidenced by last night’s total self-implosion.
It may be a Monday, but it’s the Monday of Thanksgiving week! I love cooking Thanksgiving dinner. It’s the one holiday where the main attractions (turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes) totally outshine the kind-of-lame desserts (I’m not a big fan of pies). The Ogre and I did the big grocery store trip on Friday night, and I just have to get a few things on Tuesday. The next few days are going to be full of simmering turkey stocks and cranberry sauces, soft white rolls rising on the counter, pies baking, bourbon balls being rolled and put where the Ogre can’t find them, and children being told for the zillionth time not to eat the butter that’s softening on the counter. (Do your kids eat butter? No? Just mine then? Great.) I’m sure I’ll find time to blog somewhere in there, and I promise not to write a sentimental post about what I’m grateful for, cause that shiz drives me crazy. Good luck with your preparations, and I hope your Monday is going better than mine.