Me, The Anti-Martha

Today is going to be one of those days.  You know the kind I’m referring to – the kind where nothing goes exactly as planned and you can’t decide if the best course of action is just to call a mulligan, or start drinking, regardless of what time it is.  If I could think of a breakfast food that red wine actually tastes good with, well I might pour a glass.  But I’ve never read that little notion on any bottle of Merlot I’ve ever purchased…hints of apricot and oak, goes well with egg dishes and Cheerios.

My day actually started out in the night.  Of my three kids, two are sick.  Which means that at some time between getting my jammies on and then off, I had all three kids hankering for some prime real estate – my bed.  This may not sound alarming, but I have a queen-sized bed, and since I’m no Kate Moss, I actually take up space in it.  And then there is my husband, and the cat, and all the clothes that are laying across the end of the bed, plus those damn decorative pillows that the cat uses to de-fur herself upon, and yada yada yada.  I finally gave up the idea of a peaceful night and just settled for napping between interruptions.  Things like an elbow to the temple, the cat grooming me (Again?  Didn’t she get the job done an hour ago?!?!) and yet another little voice whispering next to my pillow “Mom, I’m having a hard time sleeping” made the frequency of the naps fairly short and spread out.  I do give myself a pat on the back for not having snapped at my poor congested daughter that she wasn’t the only one having trouble visiting the Land of Nod.  Of course, then she wiped snot on me and I got a little more pissy about the whole thing.  No one has ever accused me of having Florence Nightingale tendencies.  

Gave up, took the pooch for a walk, and then got the oldest kiddo ready for school.  Now, in your house, said process may not be much of a problem.  In fact, I know that for most people, this is not a big issue.  In my house, it is.  You see, my son has the attention span of a gnat or something else that has no attention span.  Well, that is not actually true.  He can focus just fine.  Just not on what he is supposed to be doing.  I’ll send him to the bathroom to brush his teeth and find him 20 minutes later, still stinky-toothed, and driving an empty tp tube around the counter.  I have given up trying to turn him into a normal human being and have just accepted the fact that when he’s no longer living at home, I’ll still be driving over and getting him dressed in the morning.  And before you start offering up parenting advice, don’t you think I may have tried all those things?  All I can say is this:  who is actually being trained with those dog and pony tricks?  It just pretty much gives me more things to fail at accomplishing.  “Pooey, I forgot to get quarters again for your allowance incentive.  Hmm, can we use dried garbanzo beans this week…again?”

Anyhoo, I was walking back from the bus stop, in the snow but wearing shoes and going down-hill, and found myself more and more hesitant to actually enter my house.  Because when you’re a SAHM, the house is pretty much your domain.  That’s all well and good if you’re say, Martha Stewart, but I’m so not Martha-esque, you can call me the Anti-Martha.

A few weeks ago, I described my day as follows:  

Nine times out of ten, I’m making pb&js on the stovetop because that’s the only available surface wider than 4 inches. What is wrong with this picture??? Yeah, lots. 

Every night, I think that tonight will be the night that I get all the dishes washed and put away, the recycling taken out, the gunk wiped off, the metals de-fingerprinted, the table un-markered, and the general chaos ended. And every night something else happens. So then in the morning as I’m brailleing my way to the coffee pot, something quite disastrous is likely to happen.

Today’s version was like this: As I was balancing the pieces of bread on the open loaf, opening the dishwasher with my toe and extricating a knife from the cutlery basket with the cleanest fingers of my left hand, I was also clutching the pb and jelly jars between right breast and bicep while shaking open a sandwich baggie with my right hand, and nudging open the cupboard door with the side of my head. Did I mention that it was 8:12 am and the tardy bell rings at 8:30? Or that I was in my pajamas?

Anyhoo, all is going well. And then a snack pack of triple chocolate pudding came careening out of the cupboard, whacking me in the eye. It was a right regular galatama. However, no bread fell to the floor, no jars broke, and I managed to catch the pudding cups with my belly against the counter edge. 007 I may not be, but I’m something amazing, yes indeedy.

Then, I attempted to pull on my jeans (damn things shrunk again!!!), hop into my shoes, put a shirt over my bra which is inside out, all while keeping a bag of peas against my face. 

We just MIGHT have made it on time except it takes a while to scrape a frosty window with your handy-dandy Blockbuster card.

Getting back to the house, I opened the freezer to find something for dinner, avoided the peas as the bag fell out of the freezer, and then realized that my coffee had gotten cold. So, I thought, “time for a little relaxation.” I slow down, pour out the chilly coffee, and pour myself a new cup. But as I went to add the sugar to my perfectly “caramelized” coffee, my elbow bumped into the family-sized box of raisin bran, causing me to drop the sugar bowl. 

No, it didn’t break. But now I have a pile of sugar on the floor, on the counter, across my stove, in my shoes, and probably down my bra. However, the real kicker was when the lid of the sugar bowl catapulted my chef’s knife off the counter, causing it to do one of those “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” moves until it got me in my lower leg – yep, the tip went right in. 

So, here I am with a bandaid on my leg, a slightly puffy eye, and ANOTHER cold cup of coffee.

I have a feeling that no matter how difficult her days have been, especially avoiding the Big Girls in the slammer, Martha Stewart has never had a day like that.  And if she ever got even close, she probably looked a whole heck of a lot better doing it.  Me, I’m just searching for ways to have better hair while surviving this parenting gig.  That and a good wine to serve with my Cheerios and sliced banana.

1 thought on “Me, The Anti-Martha

  1. The only way this all would make you an anti-Martha would be if you didn’t CARE about all of the disasters! But you do. So you just have a tortured inner-Martha, hiding in a bottle somewhere. =)

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