Beyond (yet again) not getting to bed ’til after 3am, Renegade woke me up with the door buzzer a little after 8am. Great! I thought. I am up early and can get started on all my work!. This misplaced enthusiasm quickly changed to mild annoyance when Rebel showed up five minutes later, thus putting into motion what would ultimately be a morning filled with bickering, fighting, whining, yelling, and crying.
Trying to defuse the situation, I banished Renegade to the kitchen so he could work on his Latin and Greek vocabulary/grammar, and found the Yo Gabba Gabba! Happy episode via On Demand. But what I’d envisioned as a snuggly half-hour on the couch quickly morphed into 20 minutes spent trying to convince Rebel that my breasts are no longer within his domain. (This is one of many things no one tells you about nursing your children until they are almost four years old.) Every time the poor kid sees my cleavage, he’s negotiating with me, and the only real benefit I can see to haggling with him over the terms of his exposure to my breasts (Please? What about just on top of your bra? I promise I will only touch for a second! But they are so nice and squishy!) is that by the time he’s 14 and trying to touch boobs that he doesn’t associate with nice mommy/sustenance vibes, he’ll probably be a smooth operator. Then again, I am not exactly sure I want him to be a Casanova of the Mammaries, so this may require more thought.
But ANYWAY, after the boob-wrangling, I thought taking a shower while the boys played with Go Bots would be a good idea, except I was interrupted no less than seven times in 10 minutes and when I got out, my bed linens were in a heap on the floor, a leg had mysteriously come off my the kitchen table, the Tings were all gone (with crumbs all over my already-dirty rug), Rebel was crying, Renegade was yelling, water was spilled all over the counter, and the cat was locked in the closet. And that was all before 9:30am.
So I did what any work-at-home mom who’s about to sell her children to Gypsies for a case of Pellegrino, artisinal vegan chocolates, and a back rub would do: I had them pick out a movie to watch via HBO On Demand. Note: it’s probably not a good idea to have your precocious 10-year-old son pick out a movie intended to appeal to a wide range of ages, from his equally precocious five-year-old brother to his enormously stressed 34-year-old mother. What you get when you allow that to happen: The Last Mimzy. And about an hour into said movie, the little guy will freak out and burst into tears because the movie is too darn scary and the mother will begin to wonder if she can compromise on the back rub if the Gypsies will make a house call to pick up the boys in 30 minutes or less.
To add to the stress, I somehow believed that my UIC class started at 1pm, even though it’s the fifth week of classes and it’s been 2pm since the beginning. But I didn’t realize this until I rushed the kids out of the house — You don’t need food – jelly on toast is fine for now – if you wanna complain you can just starve! — and zoomed downtown (with Wilco’s Kicking Television keeping me from any potential road rage incidents) before wondering why I was an entire hour early at school. Uh, yeah.
To save face, I came up with this brilliant idea to take the boys to Demitasse for lunch, but after a block walk down Taylor Street in bitter wind, we found out they are closed on Mondays. (Cue more whining…) And so the Master Mom Plan (which is now being implemented): sit in the car blogging while the boys read in the back seat and we wait for The Philosopher to wind his way into the city.
I can’t wait for tonight, which will bring relaxation, time with friends, watching 2 Days in Paris, a yummy dinner, work on the blog Sax Man and I are writing together, more writing my Finding My Way Home, and further discussion of IPOs and projections of stock in AXW. The only thing that could make it better were if I had Pellegrino in the fridge…