Laundry Out the Wazoo
Someone told me that when you have your third child, the laundry spins out of control (Pun intended. Oh, yes I did!)
Now, how can that be? I thought. The baby's wee little trousers and boy-leotards barely take up a square foot in the washing machine. Nothing is out of control around here. Everything is very much under control. (Loud sobbing.)
Oh, who am I kidding? That person was right. Piles of laundry stand like Egyptian pyramids in our basement. Oh dear, when was the last time I did laundry? I'll tell you when? SUNDAY! #$%!
So what accounts for this explosion of dirty clothes, socks and towels? It's not those little unitards, I'll tell you that. No, it's having another mouth to feed. Those quick trips to the dungeon to throw in a white load turned into trips to the couch to nurse Baby J.J. and now trips to the kitchen to prepare snacks for him. He is one hungry boy.
Based on my keen understanding of baby sign language and the various intonations of baby cries, our pre-snack conversation goes like this:
J.J.: My life is a living hell!
Me: There, there, sweetheart. It's not the end of the world.
J.J.: What?! When did this happen?
Me: No, no, honey. I said it's not the end of the world. Mommy's here. Now, tell me. What's the matter?
J.J.: I'm (sniffles). I'm (sniffles, trying to be brave)....Hungry (totally loses it.)
Me: Well, that's not so bad. Let's fix you a little bite to eat.
J.J.: No (regains composure). I couldn't possibly. You work so hard, mommy. I'd hate to put you out. Well, maybe a little corned beef and cabbage. Just to be polite.
Me: Of course, sweetheart.
J.J.: And baby carrots, parboiled, something like that.
Me: No problem.
J.J.: A banana and a few strawberries. But only if they're ripe, and only if it's not to much trouble.
Me: No trouble at all.
J.J.: And a vine-ripened tomato. If you have one handy. Don't go grow one on my account.
Me: I have one right here.
J.J.: A little Veal Parmisan. A rack of lamb. Chicken Cordon Bleu. Just whatever you have. I'm easy.
So you can see, feeding the baby is a considerable time commitment.
Not that he's a Montel Williams baby. You know, the one year olds who weigh 200 pounds and their moms go on the show and say, "Montel, I don't know what happened. In hindsight, maybe I shouldn't have screwed the baby bottle nipple onto the two-liter of coke and put it in the minifridge in his crib. But that's something What to Expect the First Year doesn't tell you. So how could I have known?" And Montel, God bless him, nods sympathetically and suggests at the end of the show that a chapter be added to What to Expect the First Year so that this never happens again.
No, no. J.J. is built, as I've said before, like a Roman god. A little cupid Angel baby, who of course Mommy will fix a rack of lamb for. Of course I will. Who wants a rack of lamb? J.J. does. Yes, that's right, little Huggy Bear. Who's the original Huggy Bear? You are. Yes, you. Agoogoogoo, bugaboo.
Now, where were we? Oh, don't even get me started on the older two, who think this is Shoney's. They graze and graze. And I follow them around assessing the crumb situation. Then I begin to plan to implement a plan to clean it up. Hey, my children need to understand how the world works. In the real world, nothing happens without a plan to implement a plan.
So basically, it's either feed the children and my husband or keep up with the laundry. In other words, it's either us or the terrorists. And I choose freedom (fries.)
Now, how can that be? I thought. The baby's wee little trousers and boy-leotards barely take up a square foot in the washing machine. Nothing is out of control around here. Everything is very much under control. (Loud sobbing.)
Oh, who am I kidding? That person was right. Piles of laundry stand like Egyptian pyramids in our basement. Oh dear, when was the last time I did laundry? I'll tell you when? SUNDAY! #$%!
So what accounts for this explosion of dirty clothes, socks and towels? It's not those little unitards, I'll tell you that. No, it's having another mouth to feed. Those quick trips to the dungeon to throw in a white load turned into trips to the couch to nurse Baby J.J. and now trips to the kitchen to prepare snacks for him. He is one hungry boy.
Based on my keen understanding of baby sign language and the various intonations of baby cries, our pre-snack conversation goes like this:
J.J.: My life is a living hell!
Me: There, there, sweetheart. It's not the end of the world.
J.J.: What?! When did this happen?
Me: No, no, honey. I said it's not the end of the world. Mommy's here. Now, tell me. What's the matter?
J.J.: I'm (sniffles). I'm (sniffles, trying to be brave)....Hungry (totally loses it.)
Me: Well, that's not so bad. Let's fix you a little bite to eat.
J.J.: No (regains composure). I couldn't possibly. You work so hard, mommy. I'd hate to put you out. Well, maybe a little corned beef and cabbage. Just to be polite.
Me: Of course, sweetheart.
J.J.: And baby carrots, parboiled, something like that.
Me: No problem.
J.J.: A banana and a few strawberries. But only if they're ripe, and only if it's not to much trouble.
Me: No trouble at all.
J.J.: And a vine-ripened tomato. If you have one handy. Don't go grow one on my account.
Me: I have one right here.
J.J.: A little Veal Parmisan. A rack of lamb. Chicken Cordon Bleu. Just whatever you have. I'm easy.
So you can see, feeding the baby is a considerable time commitment.
Not that he's a Montel Williams baby. You know, the one year olds who weigh 200 pounds and their moms go on the show and say, "Montel, I don't know what happened. In hindsight, maybe I shouldn't have screwed the baby bottle nipple onto the two-liter of coke and put it in the minifridge in his crib. But that's something What to Expect the First Year doesn't tell you. So how could I have known?" And Montel, God bless him, nods sympathetically and suggests at the end of the show that a chapter be added to What to Expect the First Year so that this never happens again.
No, no. J.J. is built, as I've said before, like a Roman god. A little cupid Angel baby, who of course Mommy will fix a rack of lamb for. Of course I will. Who wants a rack of lamb? J.J. does. Yes, that's right, little Huggy Bear. Who's the original Huggy Bear? You are. Yes, you. Agoogoogoo, bugaboo.
Now, where were we? Oh, don't even get me started on the older two, who think this is Shoney's. They graze and graze. And I follow them around assessing the crumb situation. Then I begin to plan to implement a plan to clean it up. Hey, my children need to understand how the world works. In the real world, nothing happens without a plan to implement a plan.
So basically, it's either feed the children and my husband or keep up with the laundry. In other words, it's either us or the terrorists. And I choose freedom (fries.)
posted by Midwest Mama at 4:00 AM
1 Comments:
Sweet little huggy bear did his fish out of water flipping on the kitchen floor while Johnny and Richie ate the tops off their chocolate donuts yesterday. He began his grunting, so I put him in Richie's chair when he was through and let him eat the the bottom. He was trying to nurse an hour later!
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