Although Iris and I had stayed up after midnight for no good reason, I got up early this morning to get Lola ready for her morning dance camp. Upon awakening I went into the upstairs bathroom, where we are keeping our hardcase feral kittens, to see that they had tipped over the clean sheets and towels onto the floor and scattered the contents of their litterbox about. This was a hideous mess which couldn't wait until after I'd had my coffee, and I started on it immediately. One of the kittens escaped while I was working on this, but I trapped her in the study and left her for later. The other one cried over being left alone. All the while my baby parrot was shrieking like a crow, jangling my uncaffeinated nerves.
Once I got the bathroom reasonably hygienic and fed the kitten in the bathroom, I went down to pack Lola's lunch, and I asked the Sober Husband if he could make Lola get up and get dressed. He didn't see the problem. After all, Lola had slept in the same clothes she wore yesterday to dance camp, so by the Sober Husband's reasoning, she was all ready to go back. I pointed out that she was supposed to dress by theme every day and today's theme was international travel and sent him upstairs. As well as cleaning up after the kittens, I'd dug around in my closet until I found an old scarf of mine with a beautiful print of a map of Africa on it.
While I was still making lunch, the Sober Husband came downstairs. "Lola can't find anything to wear." I went up. Virtually all of the children's clothing was on the floor in a pile. Lola, in her underpants, was hopping around on top of piles of clothing. I enlisted big sister Iris, who pointed out, "Lucy, around the world, everyone wears pants. Just put some pants on." Lola halfheartedly started poking her foot at a pair of pants which were both inside out and backwards. "Lola," I said, "I want to take you back and get a piece of paper that says you are profoundly retarded, to keep with the piece of paper I have that says you are profoundly gifted." The children laughed uproariously at their horrible old mother. I turned the pants right side out.
After Lola refused other suggestions for shirts, I found a "Carnevale di Venezia" t-shirt the Sober Husband was given as a gift from some nuns who were selling clothes on a sidewalk in Venice years ago. I presented this to Lola, who regarded it with suspicion. "Does it have chest hair in it?"
"First off, it is clean. And secondly, if you haven't noticed, your father has very little chest hair."
"Does it have underarm hair in it?" Lola made a face.
"PUT THE SHIRT ON!"
After a lot of back-and-forth with Lola over getting her to hold her hair out of the way, I tied the African map scarf jauntily around her neck. By the time she got downstairs, the Sober Husband thought it was time to leave. "Wait! She needs breakfast! She can be a few minutes late to eat breakfast!" Iris and Lola were eager to inform their father of their mother's potentially traumatizing speech: "Momdude said she wants a piece of paper saying Lola is profoundly retarded to keep with the one that says Lola is gifted!"
"Profoundly gifted," I corrected. The Sober Husband gave me a look but spared me any commentary.
"Oh no, she still has face paint on from yesterday," I said as I spotted a little painting of a kitten on Lola's forehead. The Sober Husband got a good grasp on Lola and went after the paint. "Don't get it in my third eye! Be careful of my third eye!" shouted Lola.
"I'm rubbing it right into your chakra," said the Sober Husband as he ground off the old facepaint.
"Ow! My third eye!" mourned Lola.
Lola turned her nose up at cereal and claimed to have developed a fear of toast. Somehow we got her out the door, with Iris helpfully spotting that Lola had left her lunch behind. We caught the errant kitten.
The Sober Husband returned from dropping off Lola, only to accidentally release the same kitten that got out before and to complain that Iris was watching "crappy television." I took a steadying sip of coffee. It was only nine a.m.
I love toast. Especially cinnamon-raisin. I brought a loaf home a couple of weeks ago, and Ms. 'Pants made two slices each for Master 'Pants and me.
The little rat got downstairs and discovered the toast before I did. By the time I got down there, all four slices were gone, except for the last half-slice which was still in his grubby hand.
"Did you eat all the raisin toast?" I asked. "Yeah, this is the last piece."
He looked kind of guilty, but I understand the allure of crusty, buttery cinnamon toast.
I took pity and killed him quickly.
Reminds me of that military commercial - "we get more done before 6, than most people in a day"
Oh, that was so funny, and rang so true.
We go through the same thing with getting the younger one off in the morning for ballet intensive.
I would probably be suicidal if we had to do a theme. It's bad enough to just round up the dance clothes, breakfast, and food.
momdude, you are so negative. You left out the good part! Lizard purred!!!
You will be SO glad to have these records of your "normal" daily life when these girls are older -- assuming you live to see that!
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