The other morning, Mr. S. noted how I used to get up before him and generally need less sleep than he does, but that lately I've stayed in bed until he's out of the shower, sometimes longer.
"Well, there's no point in getting up any more," I said.
He thought I was joking, though he didn't get why it might be funny.
I wasn't joking - I was barely even exaggerating. And it isn't funny. There really is no point. All I need is to make a recording of the things I say any given day, then the next day, just set it to start playing throughout the house at some preset time. Given some easily accessible peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, it wouldn't make the slightest difference to the girls if I stayed in bed for most of the week, because all I really do with my time is tell them to pick stuff up off the goddamn floor. A recording can do that.
Today -- Monday, usually the best day of the week -- Mr. S. drove to work with both booster seats in his car. What usually helps me out of a bitter funk is to change context, get somewhere else for a while. But I'm stranded here, as sure as if my own car weren't right before my eyes. I hate sharing cars, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
And, my head hurts.
So, Plan A was to take the girls out for breakfast and do some grocery shopping, but Plan B is to mainline Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate and take a nap.
Mommy doesn't feel very good.
On the other hand, it is damn near impossible to stay cranky in the Peanut's company. She is amazingly cheerful, really almost all the time. I think some people are born with that; I wish I had been, too. It will certainly serve her well in this world. I've been watching her out the window as I type. She disappeared out of the yard... BIG no-no... went to the neighbor's yard. Hm. I called her back from the front door, in a Mommy is Not Pleased voice. Back she came, as fast as her little legs could manage it. I scolded her firmly for leaving the yard; that's one of our safety rules. "OK," she said, then, arm outstretched, "For you, Mommy." She'd brought me a flower. A dandelion, because picking other flowers is Not Okay, but a flower nonetheless. Sniffle!
OK. Plan C is to plop that Peanut in my lap and read the latest pile of library books.
I'm sure to need the Ghirardelli when the Bean gets home from school and they start bickering again.