Weeks ? & ? (Why is it still Summer?!?)
Grocery List:
- Hostess Cakes delivery truck backed up into the garage.
Activity List:
- Whatever they want. I’m not coming out of my room.
Chore List:
- Periodically scan rooms with a disgusted look on my face.
- Accidentally
sit in syrup that was spilled on the couchstep on a cup of yogurt left on the floor. Rage clean. Hide in my room until hubby comes home.- Repeat.
Summer Goals:
Survive. Not gonna happen.
So a lot has happened since I last wrote. First, we had to prepare and hunker down for a hurricane. While most Louisianians collected sandbags and bottled water, I took my girls swimming the morning before landfall. Listen, no amount of hurricane preparation will save me if my kids are at a full energy level with nothing to do for two days. I wasn’t completely unprepared, though. I sent hubby out for snacks that morning. He came back with a two gallon bucket of cheese flavored party mix and a package of mint Oreos, so we were all good. But like most well-laid plans, it was all for naught because the hurricane took forever and then did nothing.
By day three, it looked like a storm surge of snacks had flooded the house and left behind a sandy layer of cheese dust and Oreo crumbs all over the floor. I had been avoiding cleaning, because it always ends in heartbreak as I watch my kids crumble a trail of crackers behind me. But just like the definition of insanity dictates, I vacuumed anyway and threw my back out. As I writhed in pain and cursed the day I ever thought I could live in a clean house with children, I realized there was a silver lining to all of this. I finally have a reason to lay in my bed and binge Grey’s Anatomy while my kids tear apart my house. I don’t even have to scramble to pick up or start cooking before hubby came home. So besides the intense pain and inability to walk for more than five minutes, I have finally hit the summertime mom jackpot.
This new turn of events also forced Self-Service Summer back into the mix. There is a freedom that comes with knowing that I will not be the one to clean up my kids’ messes. My girls and I have finally been able to spread our wings and grow. They are making their own lunches and reorganizing the furniture, and I have transformed into a completely different person. Just yesterday, I stepped on six cocoa puffs in the span of two hours. The old, uninjured me would have screamed and hollered declarations of disgust while cleaning up the mess. The new me simply dusted it off on the leg of my pants, scooted back to my bed and told hubby about it when he got home. I don’t even know who I am anymore.
The one downside to the back pain is that I am supposed to be going on a long-anticipated trip to Chicago with my bestie at the end of this week. Of course, I know that the universe would not have gifted me with a legitimate excuse to do nothing if it weren’t for my audacity in thinking I deserved a trip without kids. So, I just have to suffer through the pain for the sake of a childfree weekend.
