If I told you about my day today, you would shake your head and sigh. You’d proclaim, “Surely not!”
Quit calling me Shirley.
It all started last night, when a friend of mine suggested the essential oil of lavender to get Thing 2 to maybe sleep past 4:45 in the morning. At this point, Hubs and I consider a 5:30 wake-up call to be a morning when we SLEPT. IN.
(Our college selves just died.)
(In fact, Hubs’ present-day self just died. He’s never been a morning person.)
So, I rubbed JUST A DROP! ONLY A DROP! NOTHING MORE THAN A SINGLE DROP! of lavender oil on Thing 2’s foot, and I rocked him to sleep. I tucked him in… I kissed his sleeping cheek… I stood at his little toddler bed and talked to Jesus about my boys for a moment… and then I went to bed myself.
At 1:00 this morning, Thing 2 got up.
At 4:45 this morning, Thing 2 finally went back to sleep.
In between that time, Thing 2 sang. He jumped on his bed. He asked for milk, he asked for candy, he asked for his tractors, he asked for the cats, he asked for his brother, and he asked for his grandma. He sang his ABCs, which involves him saying, “A, B…” and then humming the tune until he gets to “K,” which he shouts out with gusto. He kicked the wall. He pulled the blanket over his head and made a fort. We rocked. We rocked in the rocking chair until we’d rocked all the way to the Canadian border, until I finally gave up. I brought my pillows and my blanket to the floor of Thing 2’s bedroom, and I resigned myself to sleeping like I was in solitary confinement. Every. single. time. that our toddler pushed a leg or an arm off of his toddler bed, with full intentions of getting off of it, I snapped my fingers from the floor and hissed like Voldemort for him to, “GET BACK TO BED BEFORE MAMA JOINS THE MILITARY AND GOES TO BOOT CAMP SO SHE CAN RELAX!”
This is what I looked like at 6:15 this morning, when Thing 2 got back up.
… because yes… there IS more…
… I put a roast in the crockpot this morning. I really do know that I cooked a roast last Saturday night, but I cooked that one with carrots and onions and potatoes. Today’s roast cooked all day in au jus in our crockpot, so that it could be turned into shredded meat for French dip sandwiches this evening.
The roast had been thawing in our refrigerator for a couple of days, and last night…
… it decided to bleed out. Apparently, Old Bessie the cow said, “I give up,” and the blood poured out of that roast like energy pours out of our toddler. Because this wasn’t our first rodeo with thawing roasts in the fridge, that sucker was on a plate, and the plate CAUGHT THE MESS.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
I carefully carried the plate full of roast and blood to the kitchen counter.
One step away from the counter, I dropped it.
My kitchen looked like a scene from The Godfather… or Carrie.
I haven’t made any secret about the fact that I cannot handle bones in my meat. But, next to the bones, the thing I cannot handle with meat is the blood. It’s why I always say to the waiter at classy restaurants, “Please have the chef grill my fillet until it is GRAY. I know that this will go against his religion, because a fillet is SUPPOSED TO have pink in the middle, but if I see any pink IN THE FILLET ON MY VERY OWN PLATE, I will keel over right here, fall on your restaurant’s floor, and need smelling salts and the heart paddles. I want it to be gray. Not black. Not sort of gray with a tinge of pink. I just want straight-across-the-board gray.”
So the answer is YES. I had some issues with cleaning my kitchen this morning, and I may have oversprayed the Clorox just a touch.
If by just a touch you mean, OPEN THE WINDOWS, GLADYS, BEFORE WE’RE FLYING HIGHER THAN THE HINDENBURG ON THESE TOXIC FUMES!
And then I unwrapped the roast and put it in the crockpot, and do you know what I was THEN met with?
Well, that roast was attached to an entire rack of ribs! And ribs are bones!
Blood and bones and a total lack of sleep become a trifecta of WE HAD A MOTHER THAT WE LIKED ONCE, BUT THEN SHE WENT BAT-DUNG CRAZY, AND NOW WE VISIT HER ONCE A MONTH AT THE ASYLUM.
Which is why I emailed Thing 2’s grandma to say, “Your youngest grandson is with the nuns. They will be raising him at the convent,” right before I went back to bed.
Oh, I kid, people.
I didn’t get to go back to bed, because I had to teach PE.
And in PE today, one of my kindergarten kiddos came up to me and said, “I have to go to the bathroom.” I told him, “Okay. Go!” If there’s one thing you don’t want to mess around with, it is a delay in a 5-year-old using the restroom. He told me then, “It’s a poop. I have to poop.”
I told him to run! Run with gusto and great speed.
He then told me, “I think I might have a tiny bit of poop in my pants. But only a tiny bit.”
Which is when I contemplated what having a cigar and a bottle of vodka in the locker room of my gym would cost me, as far as a job status went.
When my little fellow came back to the gym, he announced, “It WAS just a tiny piece of poop in my underwear, but don’t worry! I took it out, and I flushed it down the toilet, and I’m fine now.”
I looked at him, and I asked, “Did you wash your hands?”
He stared at me like I had just sprouted horns with blinking strobe lights on them.
And then, without saying a single word, he turned around and walked back to the bathroom.
And that’s how we’re going to end tonight. Without saying anything more, I’m just going to turn around and walk to my bed. It’s time to put this
Monday Wednesday to sleep.