I suppose I've been a bit on the short tempered side these days. It seems like my house is always a mess. I can barely ensure that one mess is cleaned up before the kids have created three or four more messes within seconds. Dear Husband is in the middle of a pet project involving reconstruction in our home that has dragged on for nearly two months now. I have way too many things to get done at any given time and never enough time to do them. I'm working extra hours as I transition into a different clinical practice, and the bodies that govern managed health care are making the transition a constant source of stress for me. My reimbursement by these companies is slow at best, and on indefinite hold at worst. My kids, who were once routinely admired by the grocery bagger at the local food mart for their great behavior, now act up so badly any time I take them anywhere that I am constantly embarrassed and mortified when I step foot in public with them. Additionally, they are making certain that Dear Husband and I never get an uninterrupted night of sleep as Dear Daughter gets up in her sleep and wanders into our bedroom with various dramas that apparently play out in her dreams (as if the drama when she is fully awake is not enough). She apparently has no memory of these 2 am dramas the next day, but Dear Husband and I certainly do when we are yawning and rubbing our eyes the next day (and the next and the next). Dear Son also gets up in his sleep with an unconscious mission to join us in our bed in the wee hours each morning. If Dear Husband has the energy, he takes Son back to his bed. I never have the energy. So we share our bed with an octopus each night. One that likes to squirm and twist in his sleep a lot and sleep horizontally across the mattress. I, of course, always get the feet end kicking me in the stomach or the ribs or the butt in my face, while husband gets the charming little baby face.
I had a mountain of various stuff piled on the kitchen table today as I tried to prepare lunch for the wee ones. Actually, none of the stuff was mine; it was all the kids'. As I stood with plates in my hands and no room on the table to place them, I felt my head might explode. The kids quietly and solemnly gathered their stuff and busily put it away before returning to their respective chairs to receive their plates for lunch. It was silent as I took my place next to Dear Son, and we all munched awhile without a peep.
Then Dear Son eyed me from the corner of his eye and timidly stated, "I like your hair!......(long pause)" I snickered despite myself and felt that warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach towards my child as I smiled at him and replied, "Thank you!" He smiled to himself and then paused another moment before timidly asking, "You happy now?"
So thereyago. My not-quite-three-year-old boy has already begun to figure out how to schmooze the opposite sex.