Yesterday was the furthest thing from what our society deems "Pintrest Worthy," despite how awesome my ham broccoli braid looked before and after it was baked.
It's like the moment my feet hit the floor the Goob had it out for me. I went to shower and get ready to go to the gym (yeah, I shower prior to getting sweated up) only to come downstairs and smell ... something. Definitely a smell from my primary school years. So familiar I could almost taste it.
Rubber cement. Only not. Vinyl patch glue. More like it.
All over her hands. On the carpet. On the kitchen floor.
I was more mad than anything because I was afraid, at first glance - she had her hands in a prayer pose - that it was super glue and it flashed through my mind that 1) I have no idea the quickest way to the hospital from here and 2) there's no way I would have gotten her safely in the carseat if her hands were glued together.
You've never seen someone have a full on conniption fit until you've witnessed a raving 31-year-old mother dealing with a glue covered child who thinks she's just "washing" her hands with some stinky soap.
And the rest of the day just sort of went like that. I had 40 or so minutes to myself to get nothing done but zone out on a machine at the gym that I believe has a vendetta against my ass. I actually made it to the gym twice this week, which is more than all the weeks between this and the week before Christmas. I can't help but think about how much more productive those 40 minutes could have been if I'd been at home. Instead I just wanted to stop giving a shit.
About everything. Pretty much because yesterday wasn't a few days ago when things were just fabulous in the land of Oz. It's sort of sad.
Then I did something I never do and dragged the kids through two grocery stores when they were hungry and tired and pissy about everything. I bought them a fruit platter because they wanted it, and almost put it back when the begging for Mallo Cups started. They weren't going to get those, either. Please give me more credit than to think I'd give in to candy, particularly candy I can make at home.
I was just happy to find the foaming spray bleach I needed to make the shower look not like a scummy mess. The clean freak in me can't deal with it and I was getting very close regrouting the whole damn thing. I should be thanking the heavens for the gift of Clorox, but the bleach headache I'll have today when I finish spraying the shower is keeping my thanks in check.
We got home and books were torn down from the tall bookshelf, kids got banged up and bruised from running in the hallway and falling, screaming and crying ensued (some from me) ... and eventually I just had to do the least parental thing I could think of and tune it out.
I turned on the music.
I shut out the kid noise.
I ignored the dog.
I got out the yeast, the flour, the sugar and oil.
I made dinner.
I made a Pintrest dinner that wasn't quite photo worthy but it tasted damn good.
It was the only thing I was proud of yesterday.
My house will not look like a scene out of Good Housekeeping until my children have grown and moved out. And then when they come to visit it will lose the Good Housekeeping appeal and look like kids live here again.
My carpet may have smashed banana in it now, but come spring when I shampoo it again you may not notice there was ever a stain.
My kids may scream and yell and beat the shit out of each other once in a while, but they're mine and I try to remind myself they get those no-nonsense attitudes from somewhere. I am not admitting blame, only making an argument that it's hereditary. They could have gotten it from their father.
My life is not Pintrest worthy. I will never post photos of your perfect because it is not the same as mine. I struggle with the idea that my house is never clean enough, organized enough or "perfect" enough. I struggle with my children not listening, with raising my voice, with getting angry over stupid things. I struggle with my husband never helping enough, never being home at a certain time, never caring enough about the things I do (like this blog). I struggle to keep my ish together on a daily basis. Sometimes, I just want someone to walk in and say "go get your hair did and take four hours to browse Barnes & Noble, and don't forget to get yourself a fancy coffee."
I've resigned myself to the fact the fantasy above will never be played out.
It's OK. My life, after all, is not Pintrest worthy.
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