Portrait of a Harried Mother

It’s Groundhog Day every Saturday in my house, but I don’t have Bill Murray playing the piano or making ice sculptures. Instead, I have two kids with early morning extracurricular activities and zero motivation to get their shit together to participate in these activities.

After a long week of dragging the kids out of bed by their ankles, shoving them into their school uniforms, and tossing them into the hallowed halls of their elementary school, probably with their hair and teeth brushed, they decide to sleep in on Saturdays.

Usually I would praise Jesus, the Sandman, and everyone else for this great miracle, but I can’t, because WE HAVE SHIT TO DO.

The morning prep is a one-parent job because the other one is trying to scrub yesterday’s stink of their body. So that’s one parent to….

1. Feed the dogs, let them out, clean up the poop they’ll leave in the house even though you just took them out, dammit.

2. Convince The Boy, who is too tired to be bothered with pants, to cover up his junk.

3. Rip the nasty pull-up The Girl uses for a toilet off her body so her girl parts can air out and not smell like the hind end of a horse.

4. Feed the beasts, I mean kids, while nudging the dogs out of the way because they are part Hobbit and think it’s time for second breakfast.

5. Beg, plead, threaten, bribe, and anything else that can be thought of to get the kids to put on their clothes. One of these days I will take them to soccer or dance completely naked. I bet they would get dressed for me after that.

6. Shave The Girl’s head when she runs screaming in terror from the hairbrush.

7. Pin The Boy down and scrub the plaque off of his teeth with steel wool, or whatever is handy.

Finally, they are ready and it’s the other parent’s turn to shower. There are approximately 15 minutes to make the magic happen before leaving the house. Today, this was my result. I am so hot I can hardly stand myself.

Wow. Feel my MILF-y smolder.

Wow. Feel my MILF-y smolder.

I wish Bill Murray were here. He’d make the chaos of the morning all better. And he can remind to not drive angry.

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11 Comments

Filed under Partying with the Ponies

11 responses to “Portrait of a Harried Mother

  1. I think we’re twins. Except I have brown hair and an extra kid. But our tank tops and crazy Saturdays are totally the same. I’m high-fiving you right now. For solidarity.

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  2. Ugh , I feel your pain, or at least I used to. Now my boy can be bothered with pants, but not with deodorant. Which he needs. For us, it’s crazy Sunday mornings. I live for school vacations, which I never thought I would say ten years ago.

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  3. Who is sexier in car line? You or me?

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  4. Pretty sure we were twinsies today! Somedays I am lucky to have enough time to brush my teeth. Ugh.

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  5. Ha! Exactly! Because who can get four soccer balls, four pairs of itsy-bitsy cleats, four pair of shin guards (does a four-year-old really kick that hard?), four pairs of socks (which are long enough to pull up to their crotches), four team shirts (which hang down to their knees)… all at the field by 8 am? Seriously?! I’m lucky if I’m wearing pants when we arrive at the field.
    Solidarity, sister!

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