This morning, first thing, Bird started removing ornaments from the tree. Dragging all of my shoes out of the closet. Losing my comb. Screeching. Opening cabinets. Throwing forks. Using about 10 perfectly good diapers on her baby doll. Coloring on the floor. Putting stickers on the dog. Climbing the stairs in secret. Emptying the recycling one cracker box and water bottle at a time. Taking items one-by-one from the “Get Out The Door” pile and putting them “away,” checkbook in the toy basket, sun glasses under the couch, phone God only knows where.
So I say, as I’m trying for the third time to get mascara on BOTH eyes before dealing with another Bird-related issue:
“Hey Bird, would you like to watch some TELEVISION?”
She immediately dropped my day planner into the dog food. Yes. Yes she would.
I finally got my lunch together, Bird’s lunch together, daycare check written, dogs fed, clothes on, etc. I came back into the living room to find her on the couch watching a brain-melting show, looking completely medicated. Awful mama can’t be bothered with being a mama, must put child out of commission.
And from there, we moved on to going completely boneless and floppy in a tantrum over her hat, another over her shoes, another over carrying her own bag, and still another over the zipping of the coat, ending in the mother of all tantrums about walking down the front steps ALL BY MYSELF. There was a point where she arched and kicked and twisted in the car seat so that I couldn’t buckle it. There was a point where she laid face-down in the yard and I just stood there and stared at her while my eyes welled up. There was a point where I physically wrestled this child into her car seat, with the screaming and kicking and arching.
There was screaming all the way to daycare with a brief period of discussion about having a lovely snack when she got there, what do you think it will be? French toast? Great! and then more horrible, heart-wrenching, snotty, tearful wailing and grabbing at my jacket as Louise the Daycare Lady had to physically remove this little person from my body and I melted right out of the building.
And for what? So I can get to my job on time? So I can sit at this desk at a certain mark on the clock and check my effing email?
I’d like to say I handled all of this gracefully, but I’m unimpressed by my performance, starting with the television doping all the way up to the gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands and total loss of all patience and reason.
And now, at my desk, I just feel like a bad mama, like I should run as fast as I can to my Bird and make it up to her.
Again, three solid days of living my real life makes the work-week life seem so cruel.