Sunday it was the deli meat. Monday it was the cat. Can the kids be far off?
I'm speaking of the delicate juggling act that all families perform, the one where you try like hell to make sure that everyone gets clothed, fed, ferried, and loved every day--sometimes more than once a day, even. Oh, and don't forget the household in general: it has to be cleaned, mowed, managed, and paid for. (That last one is the most difficult, of course.)
The addition of Emerson to the mix has made things more complicated, but I had felt until very recently that we had things well in hand. Then came that deli meat.
On Sunday we went to the grocery store, an epic journey that used to take maybe 90 minutes but now involves multiple trips to and from the house, a necessity of two adults if there are children involved, and an M.A. in logistics. The M.A. is largely to deal with the newly cramped back end of the van, which used to beckon invitingly to our many bags of groceries but is now occupied almost entirely by our excellent stroller and the inevitable "emergency highway kit". Fitting the groceries into the back now involves puzzling through how best to shove the bags into the available space without crushing anything.
We thought we had done just that until about 9 p.m. on Sunday evening, when I sat bolt upright from my television viewing slump and shrieked, "Deli meat!" Chip looked at me quizzically, as you might expect, but then he took on my panic when I reminded him that although we had purchased tasty sliced meats at the grocery store, we had not put any away. He ran upstairs and discovered the bag containing the meat (as well as some cheese and other comestibles) lodged behind the stroller. They had been baking there for several hours. Yum!
Still, no real harm done, and all members of the household were present and accounted for. Not so yesterday when I glanced over at the cat's dish around dinnertime. Curious, I thought, that Sotek had not eaten anything all day. The realization that I had accidentally locked the cat in the guest room all day loosed another stream of invectives. She was certainly glad to see me as she skittered out of the room, leaving in her wake a soiled towel on which she had been forced to do her business. (As an aside, how great of a cat do you have to have to make the effort to pull down a towel for the business-making? We don't deserve such a cat.)
Again, no real harm done, but it doesn't make me hopeful for the future. I found myself in bed this morning wondering when I could stop this crazy-making schedule and not have to choose which "extra" I want to do each day--"extras" being defined as such extravagances as flossing my teeth, putting on makeup, and applying sunscreen to my burst-into-flames pale skin. Yesterday I chose flossing and regretted it by the evening when the sun allergy caused my forearms to itch enough to make me want to rend my own flesh.
I know, I know. Poor me, right? It's not like I'm the only parent who feels this way. In fact, thanks to The Dad, I know that some of us feel worse. When produce and meat have the power to make you cry, you know you've reached some kind of parental milestone.