Wednesday, 25. September 2013
“Also, Harper dressed herself today, which is why she looks like that.”
That’s the text I sent to Harper’s daycare lady today.
Harper is wearing pink and white striped tights and a dress that is a size too big and covered in yellow and pink flowers. She’s rocking the off the shoulder look. It hangs down to her ankles. There’s a boobie exposed. Laef calls it her Little House on the Prairie outfit. She’s says it’s “so pwetty, mommy.”
There aren’t enough words to describe how bad this pains me. It also pains me when she wears her Daisy Duck pajama bottoms with her Minnie Mouse pajama top. Who cares, right? She’s only going to sleep. No one is going to see her. But I have bought her so many cute pajamas and outfits, and they are collecting dust in the closet because she will only wear dresses, and all garments must be pink. Basically if I want her to wear a cute matching outfit she will refuse because EVERYTHING HAS TO BE HER DECISION.
Seeing as we live in an insane asylum with Harper and Reagan, I have thrown in the white flag on a myriad of issues. The biggest ones being:
1. What Harper wears
2. Our couch
3. What we eat
4. The walls, the floors, the bathroom, the play area (OK, our entire house)
Over the past few days, I begrudgingly came to a realization: I live in a frat house with a bunch of farting, pooping, loud, messy, Lucky-charm eating animals. It used to be that I would clean up constantly during the day. I would regularly wipe yogurt up from the floor. Why? Because Harper thinks it’s fun to dab yogurt on each finger and then run all over the house until she finds me:
“LOOK AT ME, MOMMY! HARPER SO SILLY!”
I don’t know what I was doing at that particular moment, but I only had time to cringe for one second before she ran away, most likely to put her hand all over the couch, which has become a cesspool of ICK. It’s like that couch that you slept on in college at some frat house because you were so wasted and the frat dude was so hot that you totally didn’t mind waking up on a beer/throw up stained couch. Except now you’re a full grown adult with a real job and looking at stains on your couch makes you feel like a total fucking loser and like you’re an intern at Forever 21 making $8.75 an hour. You know it’s bad when you’re dressed for work and you won’t go within a 17-foot radius of your couch because you don’t want anything from the couch to even possibly touch you, nor do you want to smell like the middle cushion.
Anyway, when Harper was running around with yogurt all over her hands laughing like a lunatic, all I had time to do was smile at how cute she was. I couldn’t chase her. I didn’t have any wipes handy. I finally just said, “Whatever.”
Because if I had ran after her, cleaned her hands, wiped up the couch, it would only be a matter of minutes before she got up from her table to come find me and show me how she was eating her soup out of her bib.
When it comes to kids, there is just no way to predict what is coming next. It’s a constant hurricane of mess. They will draw on anything and everything besides paper. Unless, it’s my shopping list that I need. If that is the case, they will happily draw all over it, and tear it up for an extra does of silliness.
By the way, please don’t be fooled by the text on that shopping list. That is like my pretend shopping list. The one I would use if I was a DINK. The one I was working with on Saturday afternoon when I was inspired and rested. By Sunday night our dinner was nowhere near Pork Tenderloin with baby potatoes and asparagus.
We eat what we can find. Sometimes it’s PB&J with soup. Sometimes it’s a cheese quesadilla. And, I’ve learned to accept it. What’s important is that everyone is fed. What’s important is that no one gets hangry.
Let’s recap. My house is not mine. The bathroom is play area no. 2. I don’t have control of my make up, my nail polish, my sink, my tub or my toilet. Every time I pee, I have to remove the princess toilet cover. When I do my make up, I have to sift through the spilled powder to find my eyebrow brush. If I take a bath, I am staring at a plastic Elmo faucet cover.
There is never a moment where I am not reminded of my kids. I either see their “artwork” all over or I hear them singing while jumping on whatever they can find.
And I’m finally at peace with all of it.