You know what would be great? It would be great if someone could help me get the steel-toe-boot-wearing month of September to stop repeatedly kicking me in the balls with all of its might. Anyone?
We knew this was going to be a difficult month … a “transitional” month, if you will. Zan started kindergarten (which he still loves, thank god), and Jayna started preschool (which she doesn’t still love, dear god), and both have to spend a few hours per week in daycare. In other words, we have all of the necessary ingredients for a 3-year-old and a 5-year-old to meltdown in spectacular fashion at least once a day.
Today is Tuesday. Tuesday is the day on which we tackle the nuttiest schedule of the week: WW drops Zan off at daycare and drives to work; I drop Jayna off at preschool, and, two-and-a-half hours later, pick her up, transport her to daycare, swap her out for Zan, and chauffeur Zan to kindergarten; WW then gets out of work, picks Zan up from kindergarten, picks Jayna up from daycare and returns home. (During today’s midday taxi service, I was headed to daycare when I realized I first needed to go pick up Jayna from preschool. Thank god the kids are old enough and vocal enough that I can’t forget they’re in the backseat, or I’d probably end up being one of those assholes who accidentally slow roasts their child in an unattended automobile.)
All of this leads up to the daily 4 p.m.-8 p.m. routine, which is basically one big blur of playing, fighting, crying, whining, bathing, feeding, reading and, finally, putting the children down for the night.
So, roughly 14 hours into our day, WW and I, at long last, have a few moments alone … which we generally use to collapse on the couch and talk about what we’d do if we had any energy left. We’ve even thrown a monkey wrench into that, though, because, after finally realizing that we just aren’t going to be getting to the gym any year soon, we have begun a nightly fitness program (Tony Horton’s 10-minute Trainer, which is exactly the kind of cheesy-looking thing I would never have even considered before my life turned into an all-consuming clusterfuck—so it is with no small degree of surprise that I must confess Mr. Horton and his overly dyed hair have been thoroughly kicking my ass). Do you see any time in there for marital bliss? Me either.
Oh, and blogging! Yes, of course, blogging. Must blog. Must not let blog die. Must stay up well past a sensible bedtime in order to piss and moan about a lifestyle that roughly 90 percent of the planet wishes they could have but instead they’re busy looking for clean drinking water and fortifying their dirt-floored huts.
OK, I’m done bitching now.