So what does our heroine do with herself of a Sunday, you may be wondering. Or actually, you probably don't care at all, but since it's my blog post and I need an opening, this is what you get; you can have a giant helping of Take It or Leave It on the side if you wish, too.
Here is a list of what I have done with my day so far:
Got up
Forced children to eat, get dressed, brush teeth and comb hair
Herded children into coats, boots, hats, and mittens for trip to church
Taught Sunday School
Gathered up children for return engagement with aforementioned coats, et. al.
Brought children home (with stop along the way to procure present for birthday party)
Cleaned kitchen while Child #1 was supposedly cleaning her room
Made lunch for Child #2
Informed Child #1 that making paper flowers while listening to an audiobook did not qualify as "cleaning up your room," and that her attendance at the highly-desirable birthday party was incumbent upon her actually cleaning up her room.
Weathered floods of tears and wails of child claiming, "I don't know how to clean my room," (which is complete and utter horsesh!t because we go through this rigmarole every time I ask her to clean her room, and I mean every. single. time.) by giving distinct, separate orders for every motion she needed to make ("Now pick up the clothes... ALL your clothes...now make two piles... put the clean pile away...no, you have to put them in the appropriate drawer...because I said is why...now put the dirty pile in the laundry...ad infinitum, ad nauseam.)
Gathered up Child #1, laundry detergent, and ginormous bedspread for trip to 1) birthday party; followed by 2) laundromat
Dropped off Child #1 at part and proceeded to laundromat to stuff ginormous bedspread into supersized washer (which required 24 quarters - TWENTY. FOUR. QUARTERS! I mean, damn)
Ran home and repeated the room cleaning-under-pain-of-duress routine with Child #2
Ferried Child #2 to her playdate, with a stop along the way to transfer wet ginormous bedspread to supersized dryer
Ran back to birthday party location to collect Child #1
Picked up now-dry ginormous bedspread
Dragged reluctant Child #1 to grocery store for direly-needed foodstuffs, and then to pick up Child #2 at playdate
Dragged reluctant Child #1 and #2 away from playdate
Cleaned up kitchen (AGAIN)
Walked dog
Lugged firewood
Restarted fire
Made dinner
Served dinner
Fin
And I haven't even begun to deal with our regular laundry yet.
Whoo, I don't know how I manage to lead this glamorous life. I'm a regular Sheila E., I am. What really kills me is the sheer, unrelenting nature of it all - I spend all day Saturday and Sunday catching up from the week that just ended and getting ready for the week that's coming, just so I can make it to the next weekend and start the cycle all over again. Where's my day of rest, I ask you?? The Good Lord got one. Sheesh, even Tim Tebow gets his Sundays off (and he's getting a lot more of 'em, after that last meeting the Broncs had with the Pats, heh heh); so why don't I???
I'm telling you this not because I want to bore you to death (too late!) or because I'm whining, but to illustrate just how plebeian and uninspiring my daily rounds can be. It's no wonder I like going to work; work is a nine-hour stretch of time in which I'm guaranteed not to have to run errands. [An aside: This is also why I get all throat-punch-y when the latest megadiva to push out a crumbcrusher or two coos to the media about how much she loves motherhood and how it's such a privilege to spend every free moment possible with the child she simply adores and can't bear to be away from for even an hour. You just know this mom ain't the one spending hours schlepping her kid to eleventy-seven birthday parties a month; she's letting the nanny put Mahlyssah and Jaxon into their Beaux et Belles mufti so the driver can truck them off to Dylan's Candy Bar. Yeah, I'd think mothering was a trip to the spa, too, if I didn't have to, you know, do stuff for them.]
But I digress. Anywhat, I've decided that what I need is a soundtrack!! And, since I am a great fan of irony, I've decided that this soundtrack needs to have a theme, that being one celebrating the nonstop whirl of the champagne-and-caviar life I lead. In addition to the aforementioned Sheila E. tune, I was thinking of "Puttin' On The Ritz," either the real one or that disco version, and after that... well, I'm kinda stuck. Maybe Paradise City? Mo' Money Mo' Problems? What do you think? I'll let you know what I come up with, if I ever get enough time to pull such a playlist together.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be off. My public needs me. Those cat pans aren't going to scoop themselves, yanno. You can entertain yourself with this while you think:
P.S. My hair? Would totally do that, given the right (meaning bad) haircut and styling products. And for several years, it did.