Chasing Ri and Bo


…are the absolute worst. They suck. They just do. I don’t think anyone has ever really disagreed with this statement. Today though, was particularly rough – like kicking a girl in the teeth when she’s already down kind of rough.

Waking up this morning was like a slap to the face. No, wait, I actually got slapped in the face by my three-year old.  A loving tap, which made me almost jump out of my skin. The rest of the morning followed in traditional fashion, a circus of cranky children, messy diapers, lunches to be made, clothes yanked from the mountainous piles on the kitchen table, and party-themed mini-muffins smushed into the playroom carpet. It still baffles me that I made it out the door today. I’m pretty proud of myself that my kids arrived on time to school looking completely almost presentable.

Parenting win! Kind of.

Anyways, beyond the normal reasons for hating Mondays, these reasons add to my hatred and are the sole reason why I drink more despise this particular day of the week.

It is trash day

Like I don’t have enough to worry about already, our trash pick-up is scheduled for Monday. What idiot thought that monday-polar-bear-funny-pictureswas a good idea? You’re probably thinking relax Jenna, it’s not that big a deal, but it is. It really is. What does this mean for me? I’ll tell you. It means that in addition to everything else I have to do on Monday morning, I also need to run around our house like a madwoman, emptying trash cans in every room to ensure that the rotting diapers will be disposed of in a timely manner. As you know, shit stinks. It isn’t pleasant. Add the 80 degrees and humidity we’ve been enjoying and you can just imagine how ripe our house would smell if I didn’t take the time to do this.

Once all garbage is collected, I then have to roll the bin out to the end of the driveway. As I do this, Bode teeters behind me in his jammies, and Lexy poops on our neighbor’s yard, again. During this crazy parade of me wielding trash, Riley insists on standing on the porch in her Elsa undies yelling at the top of her little lungs, “What you doin’ Momma.” OVER AND OVER AND OVER again.

Followed by, ” I NEED BIRTHDAY MUFFINS!”  Her birthday is in April by the way, but she celebrates every-day with party-themed mini muffins. She is definitely my kid. It’s swell.

It is swim day for Riley.

I hate swim day. Why? Because, like trash day, it is just one more thing. And some days, you don’t have the capacity to do one more thing. Thankfully, my mom is a saint, and washed the contents of Riley’s swim bag on Sunday, while she and my dad watched the kiddos. This was a nice treat. I usually scramble on Monday morning to rinse her suit in the sink and toss it in the dryer with the hopes of getting the nasty smell out that has unfortunately been acquired from rotting in her daycare bag all weekend. It rarely works. I’m seriously tempted to put the damn thing on my car antenna and have it air dry while I go down I-89, but I haven’t gotten that desperate yet. Yet being the key word here. Mom goals.

The kiddos do not do the weekend-to-school week transition well

My kids do not move fast. I mean they are literally turtles. Really slow. Like, deathly slow. There is absolutely zero urgency on Monday mornings, or any morning, which creates a lot of back and forth tension.

Today for example:

Me: “Riley, we need to get dressed.”

R: “No. Five more minutes.”

M: “Riley I need you to brush your teeth and go potty.”

R: “NO! Five more minutes, Momma.”

M: “Riley, I need you to go get your shoes please and try to put them on yourself.”

R: “NO. I’m coloring right now Mommy. I’m doing a special project.”

Note to self, when Riley says she is doing a “special project,” you run to the room. Do not walk. Run. Run fast. Red flags and mental alarms of all kinds should be sounded when you hear the word “special project” from your three-year old.

Instead of getting her shoes on like I asked, she instead thought it would be a good idea to cover herself in markers, followed by decorative stamps. She’s such a gem. A marker-clad shiny one.

Remember when I said my kids were presentable? Well yea, I lied.


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