Tuesday, February 26, 2013


It’s Tuesday and Wyatt is just feeling 100% after his catching a bothersome stomach bug last week. Sadly he hubster also succumbed to the illness Saturday afternoon, so by Sunday I had two very sick men on my hands.

Ugh. It made for a great weekend.

I naively thought that the little man was feeling better Monday morning. After giving him his normal breakfast of cheerios and yogurt, I realized I was sadly misguided in that assumption. As a matter of fact, I think Monday might have been the worst day of all, as not only was he hungry for real food, missing his milk terribly, running off at the bowels, AND regurgitating anything he ingested—but he was also just sick and tired of being sick and tired. I spent most of my day trying to console him while he gave me dirty looks, yelled in my face, and threw toys in my general direction. {all in a very sweet way. or really not.}

So it was to my surprise when my benevolent spouse came home and pointed out that the house had a puke-like-odor and was probably over-run with pukey-gross-germs. He then begrudgingly loaded the dishwasher for his tired wife.

Thanks, husband! I really appreciate you putting all the glasses in the bottom rack, knives pointing straight into the air, and scattering various non-dishwasher-safe mixing bowls throughout! You’re the best!

I can look over most of that. Probably every bit of it, actually-- if it hadn’t come with somber glares and hmphs of disgust.

Of course, like-friggin’-predictable-clockwork, Wyatt perks up and begins dancing around the kitchen. In my foolish bliss, I celebrate that he is finally feeling better. Yay!

Then I am told that I have spent entirely too much time 1) on the internet 2) reading, and 3) watching television.

Let’s just say my spidey-sense perked right up. I can distinguish a compliment from a criticism when I hear one. Especially when it’s said in a rather rude and offensive manner.

Now let’s be honest—I don’t take pride in divulging about an argument between my mister and myself—and I certainly wouldn’t blog about my shortcomings as a home-maker—but let’s be honest:

He has absolutely no clue what goes on in this house during the day.

Does he think that I roll out of bed, sip coffee til 10, ignore the kiddo playing in the floor, chew bon-bons {which I assume are like Whoppers?}, and browse the internet for hours on end while juggling my Kindle filled with cheesy romance novels?

Okay, okay, there’s probably about 30% truth in that assumption.

I don’t get up at 5am anymore. Not for the day anyway—I get up around 4-5ish each morning to let the dog out. Then I crawl back into bed with my normally-loving-husband and sleep another two hours. I get up when he gets up. I fix a pot of coffee. I drink a cup with him. When he leaves, I fix W’s breakfast, check my facebook, plan my meals for the day {I’ve been on a diet for about a month using}, and browse some blogs while Wyatt sits at the table with me eating breakfast. When he finishes, I finish. We watch cartoons, play in his room, read Where the Wild Things Are {only where the wild things are…}. Somewhere between those activities, I attempt to clean the kitchen some time before lunch.

Then I make lunch. And we basically follow the same pattern again, except there’s a nap stuck in there too—I blog/facebook while W eats at the table with me, then we watch a cartoon or two together— at which point I attempt to lull Wyatt to sleep via Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood. During the nap, I straighten up the living room, throw a load of laundry into the wash, and yes, I sit down and read while I sip tea.

I guess what particularly ticked me off Monday was him coming home to find me holding Wyatt during his nap, reading my Kindle. Well, oh-em-gee, sir. Yes, I happened to somehow manhandle a baby into the fetal position and convince him to take a nap. He sat screaming in the middle of the floor for 30 minutes. Gee-whiz. I thought that’s what you were supposed to do with sick toddlers. Give them comfort. No, I didn’t go to How-to-be-a-mother school. But the state of Georgia has deemed me fit to be in charge of other people’s children in groups of 35. I foolishly assumed that meant I could make some executive decisions about how to mother my own child. Sheesh.

Maybe I’m ranting, and maybe I shouldn’t be, but at least I am going to try to turn it back around. Turn that frown upside down. When you get so mad, and you wanna roar, take a deep breath, and count to 4. When something seems bad, turn it around, and find something good. {For those of you of you who think I have finally taken that insane jump into crazy-town, you obviously don’t have a toddler who watches PBS. Daniel Tiger is the stuff.}

So in trying to keep my husband/best-friend/provider/boss-man happy, I am returning to my old cleaning chart of old. I was doing this last summer, and it was keeping our home immaculate, but then Wyatt learned to walk. And pretty much anything I had been doing during my day before that became something-you-will-never-get-a-chance-to-do-again. But alas, he is older now, more independent, and all the outlets have since been WL-proofed.

So here’s my list, new and revamped in the grayish background that I have decided I like today.

Feel free to click to enlarge, right-click to save, and print it yourself. I personally have one hanging on my refrigerator and one hanging on the mirror in my bathroom.

This marks week 1 of Girl-Get-on-That Housekeeping. Maybe I can stick with it. Whoooo knows.

Oh, and don’t worry—C and I never argue for long. Let’s be honest: he doesn’t want my job.

And maybe we love each other like fat kids love cake.

{And we can totally say that about fat kids, as we are two recovering-not-really-recovered-fatties-who-just-finished-a-chocolate-bundt-cake-together-this-weekend kinda adults.}

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