My adorable daughter missed the bus coming home today - this, on the day that she was admitted into the gifted program. Oh no, the irony is not lost, particularly since they expect her geniusness to get to school on one bus, get on a separate bus to get to smartypants school, and repeat the process to get home. Wagers on the number of days this doesn't work as designed?
Remodeling the joint - pardon the mess!
Monday
Carpool to the rescue
You know that as a parent you will make sacrifices for your children. Giving up your favorite cocktail, your sanity, going to the bathroom alone... the list is long and twisty. It's a well-advertised parental issue. "Your life is no longer your own," the experienced parents warn you. "Better go out on that last dinner date before the baby comes."
As I drop the boys off at school this morning, it became abundantly clear that I had not been warned completely. There is, apparently, a preschool mom dress code. And I am not in compliance.
I usually drop the boys off in the carpool line. I heart the carpool line with all of my being - I pull up, they open the door, the boys get out, and I drive off, with no one the wiser to the fact that I'm wearing the same sweatpants that I slept in. But today, I have to pick the boys up early, so in I go, sporting jeans & a sweater, thinking that I'm dressed adequately enough to talk to the teachers. I was so mistaken.
These mommas are dressed to the nines. Full hair & makeup, heels - hell, I don't dress that nicely to go on the occasional date with my husband, much less to drop my kid off. Add to the fact that today of all days, I am sporting a camping hangover* and a sinus infection, and it is safe to say that I have not done my hair.
And the matching tracksuits - good grief, where are they getting these things? It was like a pastel explosion on the toddler hallway - Easter Eggs gone wild. Some of the true overachievers were actually coordinated with their children - and not just the girl children, mind you. Hello, therapy. (Or a rise in the number of florists. I'm just saying.)
This is one sacrifice, though, that I'm not making - sure, I care what I look like, but I care even more about getting some sleep. Organizational consultants be damned, I'm barely functional at 7am, and getting 3 kids out the door in weather-appropriate clothing is about all I can manage. I flatly refuse to get up that 45 minutes earlier that it would take me to shower, dress, find the appropriate purse to match, and make the 3 attempts it takes to put on makeup in a way that looks reasonable.
I have got to stick to carpool. Or find one of those crunchy liberal schools where Birkenstocks are considered high fashion. I hear they make them in patent leather now - are those still "in"?
* It is never, never a good idea to sleep outside in 30 degree weather. No matter what those cute crunchy granola guys say, no amount of gortex & fleece can keep you from getting even sicker than you started. And no length of hike will make 16 9-year-old girls tired when they're basically at an understaffed slumber party.
As I drop the boys off at school this morning, it became abundantly clear that I had not been warned completely. There is, apparently, a preschool mom dress code. And I am not in compliance.
I usually drop the boys off in the carpool line. I heart the carpool line with all of my being - I pull up, they open the door, the boys get out, and I drive off, with no one the wiser to the fact that I'm wearing the same sweatpants that I slept in. But today, I have to pick the boys up early, so in I go, sporting jeans & a sweater, thinking that I'm dressed adequately enough to talk to the teachers. I was so mistaken.
These mommas are dressed to the nines. Full hair & makeup, heels - hell, I don't dress that nicely to go on the occasional date with my husband, much less to drop my kid off. Add to the fact that today of all days, I am sporting a camping hangover* and a sinus infection, and it is safe to say that I have not done my hair.
And the matching tracksuits - good grief, where are they getting these things? It was like a pastel explosion on the toddler hallway - Easter Eggs gone wild. Some of the true overachievers were actually coordinated with their children - and not just the girl children, mind you. Hello, therapy. (Or a rise in the number of florists. I'm just saying.)
This is one sacrifice, though, that I'm not making - sure, I care what I look like, but I care even more about getting some sleep. Organizational consultants be damned, I'm barely functional at 7am, and getting 3 kids out the door in weather-appropriate clothing is about all I can manage. I flatly refuse to get up that 45 minutes earlier that it would take me to shower, dress, find the appropriate purse to match, and make the 3 attempts it takes to put on makeup in a way that looks reasonable.
I have got to stick to carpool. Or find one of those crunchy liberal schools where Birkenstocks are considered high fashion. I hear they make them in patent leather now - are those still "in"?
* It is never, never a good idea to sleep outside in 30 degree weather. No matter what those cute crunchy granola guys say, no amount of gortex & fleece can keep you from getting even sicker than you started. And no length of hike will make 16 9-year-old girls tired when they're basically at an understaffed slumber party.
Wednesday
Frowzy Cottontail
slovenly: negligent in neatness especially in dress in person, habitually dirty and unkempt. syn: frowzy
I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad housekeeper. Not so bad that the Board of Health has me on their regular route, but bad enough that if we had smaller dogs, we might mistake them for the hair ball that just rolled by. Or vice versa.
The cleaning, it must be done. It is not that I don't like clean, per say, although dirty is a fine excuse to close the door to visitors, which we all know I think is a good thing. But you see, I have seen the light, and the cleaning, it must start. (And as a disclaimer, we are not unsanitary, just a mess. With dog hair.)
The problem is, of course, that I went to my mother's for the weekend. And I was skeeved a bit. That's all I'll say, skeeved, since I don't want to out her or anything, but I think it's safe to say that many of us have gone to our parents, harbingers of our youthful clean memories, and well... Been skeeved. And I cannot start out being all skeevy and what-not, because if I start there, where, oh where, will my grown children find me? Somewhere worse than slovenly? Say, south of a hovel, yet north of condemned?
So in my academic way, I have a bought a book on housekeeping, which is fine, and will delay the actual work until I have studied for days on the art of housekeeping. I am 20 pages in, and while I admire this woman's devotion to all things mop and broomish, I am afraid. Her weekly cleaning list? Is a page long. It would take me a year. For the weekly cleaning. The book itself? Oh, 600 pages or so. Seriously, 600 pages on correct cleaning solutions for everything from abrasive cleansers to wine stains.
I had no idea. No clue, honestly, since I don't think I recall my mother "Fall Cleaning", especially with us participating. I remember the cleaning service that broke things, and the yelling and threatening re:room cleaning, but not her actually doing any of the things on this list, like vacuuming window treatments and all that. (page 30 or so does address hiring someone, but I'm not ready to open the door, remember? the mess?)
This must be penance for something, like the quitting of the latest volunteer assignment. Yes! I! Quit! Teacher assignments be damned, I have quit. Quit! I am relieved, and still horribly guilted every time I see the committee head's child, but the guilt can be assuaged with alcohol, so we're fine. Quit!
Back to my reading - I am kinds of excited about the next topic, "Neatening." Do you think there will be a subsection entitled "Proper methods for tying down messy children"?
I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad housekeeper. Not so bad that the Board of Health has me on their regular route, but bad enough that if we had smaller dogs, we might mistake them for the hair ball that just rolled by. Or vice versa.
The cleaning, it must be done. It is not that I don't like clean, per say, although dirty is a fine excuse to close the door to visitors, which we all know I think is a good thing. But you see, I have seen the light, and the cleaning, it must start. (And as a disclaimer, we are not unsanitary, just a mess. With dog hair.)
The problem is, of course, that I went to my mother's for the weekend. And I was skeeved a bit. That's all I'll say, skeeved, since I don't want to out her or anything, but I think it's safe to say that many of us have gone to our parents, harbingers of our youthful clean memories, and well... Been skeeved. And I cannot start out being all skeevy and what-not, because if I start there, where, oh where, will my grown children find me? Somewhere worse than slovenly? Say, south of a hovel, yet north of condemned?
So in my academic way, I have a bought a book on housekeeping, which is fine, and will delay the actual work until I have studied for days on the art of housekeeping. I am 20 pages in, and while I admire this woman's devotion to all things mop and broomish, I am afraid. Her weekly cleaning list? Is a page long. It would take me a year. For the weekly cleaning. The book itself? Oh, 600 pages or so. Seriously, 600 pages on correct cleaning solutions for everything from abrasive cleansers to wine stains.
I had no idea. No clue, honestly, since I don't think I recall my mother "Fall Cleaning", especially with us participating. I remember the cleaning service that broke things, and the yelling and threatening re:room cleaning, but not her actually doing any of the things on this list, like vacuuming window treatments and all that. (page 30 or so does address hiring someone, but I'm not ready to open the door, remember? the mess?)
This must be penance for something, like the quitting of the latest volunteer assignment. Yes! I! Quit! Teacher assignments be damned, I have quit. Quit! I am relieved, and still horribly guilted every time I see the committee head's child, but the guilt can be assuaged with alcohol, so we're fine. Quit!
Back to my reading - I am kinds of excited about the next topic, "Neatening." Do you think there will be a subsection entitled "Proper methods for tying down messy children"?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
