Often, despite our best efforts, we still fail. Failure can be devastating, but it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes we just have to step back, shake our heads, and laugh it off. Today was one of those days.
It all started last night when I attempted to put my girls into bed, but was thwarted by the maze of obstacles on the floor. After a brief discussion about the state of the room we reached an agreement that resulted in some fast cleaning. A few hours later as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about the what else the girls could do to learn some better housekeeping skills.
This morning before heading off to work, I presented them with a challenge listed on a Post-It note. “I’m going to make you a list of a few chores and you see if you can have them done before I get home,” I said in the most exciting voice I could come up with. “You can even put a check in the box next to each chore as you get it done!” Eager to please, they agreed to challenge.
At the top of the list was to vacuum their room followed by vacuuming the living room. The premise here is that if the floor is clean enough to vacuum, then there can’t be anything left on it. Right? The theory is true, the reality, however, is slightly different.
As soon as I walked in the door this afternoon, Maddie came running to meet me in the garage. “Daddy, come see my room!” she squealed taking my hand and escorting me down the hall. Her enthusiasm was was genuine and her room was indeed clean. I glanced at the carpet and saw the vacuum lines confirming that she had done exactly as instructed.
“What about the living room?” I asked.
“It’s vacuumed too!” she said. I went to investigate and confirmed that she had done that chore as expected as well. I lavished her with praise in hopes that we can turn her into the neat freak that her brothers appear to be.
An hour later I had to step back, shake my head, and laugh. The girls had been playing in the freshly vacuumed living room and I decided to check on them. Imagine my surprise when I peeked around the corner and found that they had decided to get into the mood of the season by creating a snow storm in the formerly clean living room. “What happened to the clean carpet?” I asked in disbelief staring at what must have been hundreds of pieces of torn up paper scraps all over the floor. Sometimes you just can’t win.
As the girls started cleaning up the snow storm, I instructed my youngest son to do some cleaning as well. “Can you go pick up the ‘B’ book?” I asked him gesturing to a book on the floor. The “B” book is part of a series of 26 books, each featuring one letter of the alphabet. Being an obedient two-year-old, he picked up the book and took it to the shelf.
“Good job, Little Guy,” I said, returning to the kitchen to help Mommy with dinner. It didn’t take him long to catch up to me. Glancing down as he toddled in, I looked in his hands. “What do you have?” I asked shaking my head, stepping back, and laughing.
“C Book,” he said with a grin. So much for getting the house picked up. Sometimes you just can’t win.
For years I have had a hard time buying my wife Christmas presents without her knowing I am doing it. The reason it has been so challenging is that I only worked a mile from home so it was tough to take a detour after work without getting caught. This year, I work a little further away and there are plenty of opportunities for stops on the way. Today I made arrangements to leave an hour early so I could stop for some Christmas shopping on the way home. I knew exactly what I wanted so the stop was quick and I was back on the road in only about twenty minutes.
Just before dinner, Mommy decided to make a quick run to the store. Not really thinking that she would take my car, I didn’t mention that she needed to avoid the trunk where her gifts were stashed. The minute she walked in the door I noticed a twinkle in her eye as she said, “Can you help me bring the groceries in? And don’t worry, Honey. As soon as I saw the bags in the trunk of your car I closed it and put the groceries in the back seat.” That makes me 0 for 3 for the day. Sometimes you just can’t win.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Breakfast in Bed
There are two things in this world that can make a mommy grumpy in a big hurry: a lack of sleep and pregnancy. Unfortunately for my kids, last week Mommy had to deal with both of those complexities at the same time. The pregnancy has been a consistent issue for the past 22 weeks, but the sleep thing come and goes depending on the whims of various children.
Last week’s challenges were brought about by one very cute two-year-old boy who refused to end his days without first testing every sleep inducing strategy known to parent-kind. Things only got worse each night as he taught himself to wake up sometime after midnight so that he could toddle down the hall and sleep on Mommy. By the time we diagnosed the problem as a massive influx of teeth, the damage had been done.
When Wednesday morning dawned, Mommy was found herself beyond exhausted. She hadn’t slept well in three or four nights and her body was aching from lugging a new baby around in her expanding belly. The night before, I had noticed that we were out of milk. No milk means no cereal. For me, this is a big deal. I love my cereal. It is quick and easy and leaves no mess behind in the kitchen.
For Mommy, cereal is a curse of convenience. When she is pregnant she needs real sustenance to start her morning, not some foo-foo flakes doused in milk. Upon awakening Wednesday morning, I mindlessly opened the fridge only to be reminded of the milk problem. Realizing that my wife would want a hearty meal after she woke up, I came up with a plan.
Stealthily as can be, I showered, got dressed, and headed for my car. The grocery store is only a few miles away so I arrived with just enough time to pick up some milk, eggs, and orange juice and then get home for a quick bite to eat before heading off to work. I knew that my over-tired, hungry wife would welcome some eggs, toast, and OJ for breakfast and I silently applauded my own thoughtfulness. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to fix it for her, but at least the ingredients were now in the house.
With my cereal swimming in milk I lifted a spoonful of flakey goodness to my lips, only to see that Mommy had woken up and stumbled into the kitchen. I was mindlessly chewing and crunching on the flakes, savoring their simplicity when she erupted. “Why did you buy eggs?” she demanded waving the receipt in my face. “You paid way too much!”
I was a bit taken aback by her accusation, and it’s possible that my first reaction might have made things momentarily worse. After a few intense words, I realized that this was the tired talking, not the wife and mommy, so a change of course would be necessary. We continued the brief discussion, then Mommy headed back to bed and the kids took over.
As she lay in bed, my eight-year-old son, Zach, stopped by for a quick visit. I was busy gathering up the last few items I needed for the day, so he did what needed to be done. “Mommy, what do you want for breakfast?” he asked.
A minute later, I brushed past the kitchen on my way out, only to find my industrious eight-year-old with a cookbook in front of him. His finger buzzed through the table of contents and landed on the words, “French Toast.” I watched as he flipped to the correct page, and got to work.
“Daddy, can you get me the pig pancake pan?” he asked. Thrilled that he was showing such initiative, I pulled the electric griddle off the top shelf and placed it in front of him. He then pulled out a bowl and got to work cracking eggs, adding in some cinnamon and other ingredients before stirring it all up.
I glanced at my watch, tousled his hair and said, “I’ve got to go, Buddy. Have a good day,” and headed out the door.
As the door swung shut behind me, I heard the stirring stop and Zach say, “What are you doing up? You belong in bed.” By then, the grumpies were gone, despite the exhaustion, and a very grateful mommy helped her son make French toast.
Last week’s challenges were brought about by one very cute two-year-old boy who refused to end his days without first testing every sleep inducing strategy known to parent-kind. Things only got worse each night as he taught himself to wake up sometime after midnight so that he could toddle down the hall and sleep on Mommy. By the time we diagnosed the problem as a massive influx of teeth, the damage had been done.
When Wednesday morning dawned, Mommy was found herself beyond exhausted. She hadn’t slept well in three or four nights and her body was aching from lugging a new baby around in her expanding belly. The night before, I had noticed that we were out of milk. No milk means no cereal. For me, this is a big deal. I love my cereal. It is quick and easy and leaves no mess behind in the kitchen.
For Mommy, cereal is a curse of convenience. When she is pregnant she needs real sustenance to start her morning, not some foo-foo flakes doused in milk. Upon awakening Wednesday morning, I mindlessly opened the fridge only to be reminded of the milk problem. Realizing that my wife would want a hearty meal after she woke up, I came up with a plan.
Stealthily as can be, I showered, got dressed, and headed for my car. The grocery store is only a few miles away so I arrived with just enough time to pick up some milk, eggs, and orange juice and then get home for a quick bite to eat before heading off to work. I knew that my over-tired, hungry wife would welcome some eggs, toast, and OJ for breakfast and I silently applauded my own thoughtfulness. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to fix it for her, but at least the ingredients were now in the house.
With my cereal swimming in milk I lifted a spoonful of flakey goodness to my lips, only to see that Mommy had woken up and stumbled into the kitchen. I was mindlessly chewing and crunching on the flakes, savoring their simplicity when she erupted. “Why did you buy eggs?” she demanded waving the receipt in my face. “You paid way too much!”
I was a bit taken aback by her accusation, and it’s possible that my first reaction might have made things momentarily worse. After a few intense words, I realized that this was the tired talking, not the wife and mommy, so a change of course would be necessary. We continued the brief discussion, then Mommy headed back to bed and the kids took over.
As she lay in bed, my eight-year-old son, Zach, stopped by for a quick visit. I was busy gathering up the last few items I needed for the day, so he did what needed to be done. “Mommy, what do you want for breakfast?” he asked.
A minute later, I brushed past the kitchen on my way out, only to find my industrious eight-year-old with a cookbook in front of him. His finger buzzed through the table of contents and landed on the words, “French Toast.” I watched as he flipped to the correct page, and got to work.
“Daddy, can you get me the pig pancake pan?” he asked. Thrilled that he was showing such initiative, I pulled the electric griddle off the top shelf and placed it in front of him. He then pulled out a bowl and got to work cracking eggs, adding in some cinnamon and other ingredients before stirring it all up.
I glanced at my watch, tousled his hair and said, “I’ve got to go, Buddy. Have a good day,” and headed out the door.
As the door swung shut behind me, I heard the stirring stop and Zach say, “What are you doing up? You belong in bed.” By then, the grumpies were gone, despite the exhaustion, and a very grateful mommy helped her son make French toast.
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