It’s said that a good breakfast sets you up for your entire day. And along those lines, it could be assumed a good Monday morning sets you up for the week. In which case, we’re screwed (on both accounts.)
It’s not that this morning was any worse than usual it’s more that every morning has been terrible around here for a while.
It starts with the baby waking up way too early, usually in the 6:30 range. He wants to nurse and then hangs on me screaming for who-the-heck knows why usually until Doodle appears around 7:00 (also too early as his later in the day behavior demonstrates.)
I ask Pipsqueak if he wants fruit and he gets all I excited. I show him the little fruit cup and he laughs. I sit him down at the table and he screams. I give him a fork and he pushes it away. I give him his water cup and he starts throwing food at me. So I take the food and him out of his chair. He wanders around whining and crying.
Doodle ask for toast with (his) butter and sprinkle (cinnamon sugar.) Easy enough. Until I make the life shattering mistake of putting the toast in the toaster. Because apparently he wanted un-toasted toast.
I set Pipsqueak’s high chair tray on the floor and my little guy, still wearing his bib, runs over and starts devouring the same fruit he refused to even taste at the table. It’s become a thing, he much prefers his food sitting on the floor.
Honeybun appears and rummages through the pantry, fridge and freezer then takes her usual morning spot on the couch, pouting because she doesn’t know what she wants to eat and nothing looks good.
Sugarplum, the last to rise, comes down grumpy because everyone is too loud and woke her up. Again.
And it’s only 7:30.
It will take us another hour to get everyone fed and the kitchen cleaned up.
Then it’s on to school. Our daily calendar time followed by journal and spelling (which can take us an hour depending on attitudes) followed by about an hour of our daily subject. Monday is math which can go really great or can be a train-wreck of “I don’t know how to do this!” “I need help!” and “This is too hard!” followed by massive amounts of pouting, whining and over dramatics and very little math actually completed.
Usually during this time is also when Pipsqueak, who woke up too early, loses all control of himself and hangs on me screaming until I take him up for a morning nap.
Which is fine, except after school is lunch and then the bigger kids need to be in bed by 1:00 for nap/resting time. And that’s usually around when Pipsqueak wakes up. So the big three are resting and I’m stuck with a hungry, angry toddler who requires 98% of my attention during the only time I am free to accomplish anything.
If I’m lucky, Doodle will stay upstairs until 3:00 (whether or not he sleeps is another issue completely). Usually he’s asking to come down b 2:30 after running around the hallways for an hour and a half.
Then the countdown begins for getting out of the house for dance and/or gymnastics on time. We need snacks. We need to get dressed. We need to brush hair and put it up. And this is around when Pipsqueak is ready for is afternoon nap.
We rarely leave on time and Sugarplum is almost always late for gymnastics practice (yes, I’m the bag lady rushing into the gym with a parade of kids, screaming “run, Sugarplum!”) Luckily the coaches *get* me and it’s not usually a problem.
The next two hours are spent telling Honeybun and Doodle that we are not going to get a snack because they had one at home (even though I’m desperate for a coffee) and chasing Pipsqueak away from the gym doors, pulling his hands out of the grimy vending machines and telling him “we don’t need to splash in the toilet!” every time someone leaves the bathroom door open.
Then it’s time to rush home and make something for dinner which usually consists of whatever I can throw together in 2.4 seconds because Pipsqueak didn’t get an afternoon nap (two 1/2 hour car naps don’t cut it) and he’s, again, a raging, screaming lunatic.
We sit down for dinner when hubby finally gets through the horrific hour-long commute and Pipsqueak refuses to eat what I give him as does at least one other child. And the requests for dessert and accompanying meltdowns come next before we usher everyone upstairs for bed. Which, of course, must involve no less than one meltdown and a 5-minute baby wrestling match when it’s time to put on his pajamas. If I’m not ready to jump out one of the second-story windows, I’ll read to them from “our” book (which is currently Little House on the Prairie) before demanding everyone go their beds and saying “I love you!” a hundred times while actually thinking “just be quiet!” and hoping Pipsqueak doesn’t require 20 minutes of rocking while screaming to settle down.
Then my “free” time begins which usually just consists of staring at Facebook and pretending to work on the blog until I’m too tired care anymore and I head off to bed feeling completely unaccomplished. All to wake up again the next day and do it over again.
