Just once, it might be nice to spend a Saturday morning like HRH: to roll out of bed to a hot breakfast, lounge around while someone else does the dishes and hangs laundry and puts away bedding and helps children get ready, and then disappear on a mysterious, urgent errand when the climax of madness that is getting children into their coats and hats and mittens and shoes and socks occurs.
From my point of view, of course, the whole thing is supremely frustrating. Like trying to eat spaghetti prettily on a first date frustrating.
Of course HRH spends every morning that way, but Saturday bothers me because it is the one day of the week all four of us need to leave before eight. Weekday leaving times are staggered, and that is much easier when it comes to checking who has what in which bag and what they are ultimately forgetting.
Me First was an asolute pill yesterday. Lots of crying and freaking out over miniscule things. I’ve seen this behavior before. Usually it means he’s having trouble at school or coming down with something. He needs some extra love and understanding right at the times when his behavior is most infuriating to me.
I somehow managed to make it to bedtime with my cool in tact, which doesn’t happen often when faced with this alternative hyper emotional Me First. I settled into a book to relax.
But, damn it all to hell, the heroine totally pissed me off and now I’m not sure I can finish the novel.
So I am low on patience this morning do to a quadriple threat of parenting stress, resentment, PMS, and Phillipa Gregory and her goddamn book.
Watch out, world.