Tired ass mother

Excuse the language.. gheez. It’s the best I can do after a week of consoling two flu-afflicted children, preparing and serving 40 plus barbeque dinners for the wanting monday night masses, launching a new internet cafe, laboring to meet a story deadline in hopes of landing a writing contract, and preparing for a visit from my beloved mama.  This matrix of events has been overlaid across the backdrop of my own sputtering immune system, a grant funding rejection notice, estrangement from a few clusters of trusty friends, and an unusually crisis-filled dockett to navigate as the high-school counselor.  Ahhh… but the sun has been brilliantly shining.  Even after 5 sleepless nights spent soothing a fevering baby, my bleary eyes brightened with every opportunity to absorb the late morning sun.

Just to update, Matt – the unknowing object of my laundry-based obsession – Sears repair man did finally re-visit me. And, he fixed the hell out of my washing machine. After three plus months of staring at the thing, it finally spun us some sweet smelling sheets and jammies. Our reverie, however, was short-lived. The hot water heater gave up the ghost just 36 hours after the washing machine was revived. Turns out, the washing machine won’t work when there is no hot water pressure …even if you beg it to wash things cold. So , here we are again… belaying down bluffs of crumpled laundry while scratching dirt off our unbathed skin. I’m, of course, being unnecessarily dramatic. It’s all to say that things like bathing and washing dishes are taking a little longer as of late and that compounds the tired-assedness of this mother.

Ossian astounded us two nights ago by letting us know that her peach colored plastic baby doll, Emma, was “not impressed” by us (her parents and baby sister).

Yesterday, I noticed the back door open and then shut. Intrigued, I ventured closer to find it had been opened by a speed crawling baby Nola on her way to greener pastures in the great outdoors.

Our dear friends, Justin, Amy, and Violet recently spent the weekend here and introduced us to Guitar Hero. Thank god I don’t have that apparatus permanently available to me in my own home. I could easily spiral into a tv tethered, power chord hammering addict.

Thank goodness for the luxurious solace of unfettered sunsets and leaping lambs.

hat hair

This week, “take a shower” has been towards the top of my methodically thought about but hastily scrawled to-do list. This item has yet to be completed or crossed off. This is such a routine conundrum that I hesitate to even waste a blog post on it’s description. I guess the idea of waste is really irrelevant given that this blog is free and that I can do little else while holding a lightly sleeping baby in anticipation of a soon-to-awake-and-likely-to-be-grumpy toddler. I could read, I suppose.

Water is plentiful now, after a barrage of steady rain last week. The water heater’s pilot has been re-lit after being snuffed out by nearly gale-force winds. Though today has been rough with two sick little ones and a disturbingly filthy house, my mood is good and I cannot claim depression or lethargy as a barrier to my much needed bathing session. I even have a new, yummy bar of soap. So what’s the problem? Competing priorities with limited resources of time, I guess, and personal hygiene simply hasn’t made the cut. It’s not like I’m running the United Nations or something, so what could these mighty “competing priorities” be? That explanation would be a waste of a blog entry. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

I am in rather desperate need for a break from my blessed children. An ideal solution exists in the form of my favorite weekly dance class (yes, it is the only one in town) which takes place this evening. My hygiene deficit begs the question, “can I inflict my malodorous and matted self upon my dancing peers?” The room will be overheated and bumping with bodies. While I could imagine deluding myself into thinking that a hefty swath of deodorant would camouflage my transgressions, nothing can fool me into believing that my hair mats are insignificant. I will be forced to remove my hat; an accessory that hasn’t left my head in several days. What the absence of hat will reveal is a lot to consider. Is my desperation for a break greater than or equal to my shame about my disheveled state. Will I dance tonight, hair pies and all? Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion to today’s mini-drama, Hat Hair of the Hurried Housewife. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.

P.S. Feel lucky that my camera is still languishing in the hands of the Canon repair department. Otherwise, my tremendous hat hair could be the last thing you see when you close your eyes to sleep tonight.