August: Dog Days of Summer

Sunday, November 11, 2012


I am NOT Donna Reed. I cannot cook my kids a nutritionally complete breakfast,  entertain them with educational playtime activities, assist in their intellectual growth, assist my husband with a floor plan for his new restaurant (which took me 8 hours today), make sure my daughter practices her Irish dance, clean my house, do laundry, change and wash all the sheets on all the beds, scoop cat litters, provide healthy snacks for the kids in the middle of the day, grocery shop, cook dinner, fetch firewood and make a fire, roast marshmallows and make s'mores, give the kids their bath, make sure they brush their teeth, read them books, put them to bed, clean up the kitchen from dinner, write an intelligent and pithy blog post, AND have time and energy left over to give my husband a little nooky all in one day. I simply can't do it.
Here's what I DID accomplish out of that to do list today: I got to sleep in until 9:30 while Pete gave the kids a bowl of instant oatmeal for breakfast. I got to cook my own breakfast, and another one for Alex. And some more toast for Sophie. I got to work on 2 different floor plan options for the new restaurant- (which basically turned my day into a day at work) while Pete got in the hot tub with the kids. I cleaned up the kitchen so that Pete could cook dinner- I have to clean it again, FROM dinner. I made the kids the "best hot chocolate in the world" (lightly boiled milk with Cadbury's cocoa powder, whipped cream and crushed peppermints sprinkled on top.) I toasted marshmallows in the fire that Pete started, made s'mores, gave the kids their bath, brushed teeth, read books and put them to bed. I am writing my blog post because this has become my nightly therapy session. I have to grocery shop tomorrow because we are out of the two most essential things in this house: fiber and night-time pull-ups for Alex. The cat litters are taunting me. They are the bane of my existence.
Ever notice that the mom in the movie "The Incredibles" is "Elastigirl?" There's a reason for this. All moms are Elastigirl. We have to be. Every time I contort my body to hand the kids something in their seats behind me while I'm driving our swagger wagon, I can hear my ligaments stretching like rubber.
I am not Donna Reed. I am ELASTIGIRL!!

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