monotonous cycle of sorting, washing, drying, hanging, folding, disseminating among drawers and closets...(not to mention the lugging down to the basement and all the way back up again). Just writing about it makes me exhausted, and annoyed. As I type this, the floor at the foot of our bed houses 2 1/2 loads of laundry that I have to fold and put away, and the crib is filled with kids clothes that need the same treatment. I need to get on this task (especially the crib, since baby will be probably be wanting a clothes-free environment to sleep!).
I love my husband's acceptance to my fault when it comes to this tedious task. I'm sure it bothers the hell out of him that I approach the completion of the folding process with such a nonchalant attitude, but he doesn't say anything about it, aside from the occassional razzing (but I join in with him, poking fun at my own shortcomings). My personal opinion is that he knows not to say anything because he is just as guilty in not participating in folding laundry, and he also knows that in bringing up the subject, it will inevitably end up in a lengthy discussion that I'm sure he'd happily avoid.
This morning started much like any normal weekend morning, I was even treated to 'sleeping in' until around 7:30. Upon getting myself ready for the day, I remembered that there was a load of laundry in the dryer that needed to be brought upstairs and folded (enter negative attitude and annoyance...as well as my insightful decision to deposit said clothing in the now-empty crib). As I waddled downstairs (yes, I'm getting to that point where my walking technique is bordering on 'waddling'), I was not happy. So imagine my surprise when I began removing clothing from the dryer...
Pez. I had no choice but to smile at this odd discovery (as well as be thankful it wasn't something that could have melted and gotten all over the laundry). Gavin and Brynn received Pez in their Christmas stockings, but rather than trusting a 2 1/2 and a 4 1/2 year old with keeping their own candy stash in their own room (What, mom? We won't eat it all...), we put it all into a community bowl from which they could chose a treat when they'd earned one.
Gavin wasn't a fan of this method, since "red is not a girl's color, it is a boys color". Apparently he got a hold of the community bowl, helped himself, and put the candy in his pocket for 'safe keeping'. Well, since his mommy just happens to despise laundry and wants to spend as little time as possible doing so, she must have neglected to check all the pockets (you would think that mommy would learn her lesson however, as the current count for 'Pull-Up's washed' sits at 7!). At any rate, Gavin's attempt to hoard his candy resulted in a smile for his mommy as I found yet another thing in my life that isn't in the 'quite right' place.
Ahh, mommyhood...I remember a time when finding Pez in my dryer would have never, ever happened. In fact, it would have been not just 'odd', but beyond bizarre. But not now. Now that I'm a mommy, I find odd things in even odder places...and rather than being 'odd', it's just 'my life'. Let's examine a few...
Diapers, wipes, A+D: when the kids were younger, there was a stash on every level, as well as in the diaper bags. I've actually discovered a (clean) diaper in the fridge, as I must've put it down there while I was getting the gallon of milk out to pour (yet another) cup of milk.
Let's discuss those cups of milk: we're pretty good about keeping the kids limited in the number of cups we have 'out in the world' (i.e. house), so as to reduce the risk of the very thing we want to avoid--funky milk cup. Even though we try to just have one milk cup out, it's sometimes hard to remember which character-laden cup is currently being used, especially if mom and dad neglect to communicate about it. So, imagine my horror when I discovered the cause of the 'funky' smell that was haunting me from 'my side of the couch'. Upon reaching down into the reclining part of the couch, I retrieved a cup. And not just any cup. A cup with some weight, some heft to it. A cup that was 'filled' with what I can only describe as 'used-to-be-milk'. Gross. It went into the trash...the one outside...right away.
Toys: everywhere. Literally. In every room in our house, I can find some sort of evidence of our kids. We've got organization bins and toy boxes, but it doesn't matter. There's always something 'out of place'. My class loves when I discover army men in my pockets, toy cars in my purse, or a doll's outfit velcro-ed to the inside of my coat. I've discovered toys in the fridge, in the dryer, in my kitchen cupboards and drawers, and under my feet in the dark of night(those friggin army guys are the worst).
Cooking utensils: why do we even bother buying the kids toys when they find my pasta spoon, measuring cups, and whisks scattered throughout the house? I have found spatulas and measuring spoons in toys boxes and even in bed.
My money: while I don't let the kids play with money, having them inevitably means that the 'benjamins' (or, more like the lincolns and the washingtons), will find themselves being stuffed into the cash registers of the most bizarre places or in exchange for the most ridiculous items. Prime example: Chuck E. Cheese. I'm literally paying for a migraine, tears at some point in the day, and more plastic crap (I'm sorry, toys) to litter the house. Also, any item emblazoned with a popular cartoon character. Because yes, Dora Band-Aids work so much better than their 'regular' counterparts, and Spongebob's neon-colored yogurt tastes insanely better than Yoplait light.
and finally...one more thing that I'm finding both odd and in odd places...
My body: ahh yes, let's visit this. We all know what pregnancy does to a body. Weight gain and stretch marks are just two of the more pleasant of the effects. When I was pregnant with Gavin I read all kinds of books about what was happening during the pregnancy and labor/delivery. Not 5 minutes after he was taken to the nursery to keep him monitored I began to realize that the books I read all pretty much neglected to mention all of the body things that just won't be the same after having a baby. It's really a conspiracy, because we all want mankind to continue. I remember laying on the hospital bed, waiting for the nurses to bring Gavin into my room when my *darling* husband began playing with the buttons on the side of the bed. One of them happened to activate the 'self-weighing bed scale'. He pressed the button and proceeded to inform me that although I had just recently given birth to a 7 pound baby, I had 'only lost' 3 pounds. Husband fail.
Not only is there weight on my body that is in 'odd' places, but there are gray hairs on my less-than-30-year-old-head. There are lines and dark circles near my eyes, my nails are never manicured (or, if they are, it lasts like 32 minutes). I've used lip gloss as blush in a pinch because right before I go into the store, I realize I haven't looked at myself in a mirror in a day and the pale reflection stares back at me from my car mirror, I cringe and grab the first colorful thing I can find. I have worn clothes that I would have never normally worn before having kids...covered in spit up (because I'm too damn tired to care), unstylish (nothing else fit), mismatching (it was the middle of the night getting dressed for the emergency room), and right out of the hamper (do I have to remind you? I hate doing laundry).
My entire body has been in odd places...especially while sleeping. Glider, sitting on the floor of the nursery while leaning up against the closet door, on the floor of the nursery next to the crib, squished on a double bed with very long and leggy kids (who, even on a double bed, leave about 5 inches worth of space), on the couch, the dining table, and on airplanes with one in my arms and the other across my lap. I've been in ball pits, plastic tunnels, on slides, in petting zoos, and on kiddie rides (at 6 feet tall...I look bizarre).
The part of my body that I'm quickly realizing is suffering most from 'odd displacement' however, is my mind. I swear I used to be able to have intelligent conversations with sentences that had properly conjugated verbs and did not incorporate references to the most recent lesson from Yo Gabba Gabba. I swear I used to be able to think of the words for things, the names of people and places, and the location of various items in the house. I used to read, voraciously, books that do not have a rhyming pattern or have pieces that flip, slide, or are fuzzy. I used to watch the news, to catch up on current events and be more knowledegable about goings on in my world. Randy and I used to talk about things...I don't remember what the topics of our conversations were before we had kids, but I know they never included the words 'owie', 'lovey', or 'pediatrician'. I swear, my brain used to work a lot better than it does now. And I swore I'd never turn into my mom (whom I always used to joke is 'crazy'), but I have become just as crazy as she is...and it's all because of my kids. And the Pez in my dryer.
My money: while I don't let the kids play with money, having them inevitably means that the 'benjamins' (or, more like the lincolns and the washingtons), will find themselves being stuffed into the cash registers of the most bizarre places or in exchange for the most ridiculous items. Prime example: Chuck E. Cheese. I'm literally paying for a migraine, tears at some point in the day, and more plastic crap (I'm sorry, toys) to litter the house. Also, any item emblazoned with a popular cartoon character. Because yes, Dora Band-Aids work so much better than their 'regular' counterparts, and Spongebob's neon-colored yogurt tastes insanely better than Yoplait light.
and finally...one more thing that I'm finding both odd and in odd places...
My body: ahh yes, let's visit this. We all know what pregnancy does to a body. Weight gain and stretch marks are just two of the more pleasant of the effects. When I was pregnant with Gavin I read all kinds of books about what was happening during the pregnancy and labor/delivery. Not 5 minutes after he was taken to the nursery to keep him monitored I began to realize that the books I read all pretty much neglected to mention all of the body things that just won't be the same after having a baby. It's really a conspiracy, because we all want mankind to continue. I remember laying on the hospital bed, waiting for the nurses to bring Gavin into my room when my *darling* husband began playing with the buttons on the side of the bed. One of them happened to activate the 'self-weighing bed scale'. He pressed the button and proceeded to inform me that although I had just recently given birth to a 7 pound baby, I had 'only lost' 3 pounds. Husband fail.
Not only is there weight on my body that is in 'odd' places, but there are gray hairs on my less-than-30-year-old-head. There are lines and dark circles near my eyes, my nails are never manicured (or, if they are, it lasts like 32 minutes). I've used lip gloss as blush in a pinch because right before I go into the store, I realize I haven't looked at myself in a mirror in a day and the pale reflection stares back at me from my car mirror, I cringe and grab the first colorful thing I can find. I have worn clothes that I would have never normally worn before having kids...covered in spit up (because I'm too damn tired to care), unstylish (nothing else fit), mismatching (it was the middle of the night getting dressed for the emergency room), and right out of the hamper (do I have to remind you? I hate doing laundry).
My entire body has been in odd places...especially while sleeping. Glider, sitting on the floor of the nursery while leaning up against the closet door, on the floor of the nursery next to the crib, squished on a double bed with very long and leggy kids (who, even on a double bed, leave about 5 inches worth of space), on the couch, the dining table, and on airplanes with one in my arms and the other across my lap. I've been in ball pits, plastic tunnels, on slides, in petting zoos, and on kiddie rides (at 6 feet tall...I look bizarre).
The part of my body that I'm quickly realizing is suffering most from 'odd displacement' however, is my mind. I swear I used to be able to have intelligent conversations with sentences that had properly conjugated verbs and did not incorporate references to the most recent lesson from Yo Gabba Gabba. I swear I used to be able to think of the words for things, the names of people and places, and the location of various items in the house. I used to read, voraciously, books that do not have a rhyming pattern or have pieces that flip, slide, or are fuzzy. I used to watch the news, to catch up on current events and be more knowledegable about goings on in my world. Randy and I used to talk about things...I don't remember what the topics of our conversations were before we had kids, but I know they never included the words 'owie', 'lovey', or 'pediatrician'. I swear, my brain used to work a lot better than it does now. And I swore I'd never turn into my mom (whom I always used to joke is 'crazy'), but I have become just as crazy as she is...and it's all because of my kids. And the Pez in my dryer.
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