I can’t meet up with you tonight because it’s 7pm and I cannot make that effort.
Translation: My kids go to sleep half an hour from now. If we take them to the hip restaurant you frequent, they will have a melt-down. And I think you under-estimate me when I say melt-down. Let me explain: my three-year-old will be under the table intermittently screaming and peeling off the discarded gum on the underside of the table and putting it in her mouth. Meanwhile, the little guy will inevitable get frustrated sitting still for that long, so he will begin to chuck any table items he can find at the patrons sitting within reach (IE forks, knives, salt shakers, etc.). You will not be talking to me, for I will be constantly screaming at my children.
I am too lazy to find a babysitter.
Translation: Finding a good babysitter is like searching for a unicorn. The decent sitters are elusive, guarded by the families that use them. Their names are not circulated for fear of them being pilfered, so you have to discover one through smoke signals, intuition and a lot of research. And even when you find one they predictably graduate, move away and/or find a better job. I tried the online websites, but like Craigslist, people cancel and don’t respond to messages. They set up profiles that suck you in, only to never check the site again. So when I say I cannot find a babysitter…I mean it.
I’m tired from hanging out with my kids.
Translation: I am f*$#! exhausted. Even my eyelashes are tired. Today I got up at 6am, fed the kids breakfast, walked the dog, cleaned the kitchen and made it to swim class only a little late. I buckled them back into the car (a ten minute process) and took them to the grocery store. In the store, my three-year-old insisted on touching every single piece of produce that lined the walkway. And she talked to them. Every. Single. One. My son decided he didn’t want to be there so he lay on the floor and began to lick it. I carried him around under my arm, kicking and screaming while also pushing the cart and placing groceries in it. I had to circle back once I realized he was only wearing one shoe. The three-year old, meanwhile, ignored my order to “walk” and instead ran at full speed into a crate of watermelons which bruised her knees, chest and tiny ego. I stood in line, still holding my 30-pound sumo-wrestler of a son under my arm like a football, as the checker took breaks from scanning items to chew gum and pick at her fingernails. I loaded all of the groceries into the car; strapped the equivalent of two large potato sacks filled with rabid cats into car seats, and silently cried the entire way home. It was only 10am.
I’ll call you right back.
Translation: Something has gone terribly wrong. It’s probably that the dog is eating a poopy diaper, or one of the kids has gotten their head stuck in the cupboard (again). While I have every intention of calling you back, you can pretty much count on this not happening. No offense; I love you. But I can’t remember my kids’ birthdays, so a phone call is bound to get lost in the abyss of my mommy brain.
I don’t do laundry that often.
Translation: I don’t do my OWN laundry often. I wash kids clothes ALL OF THE TIME. I swear they go through four outfits per day. But after spot treating poop and spaghetti sauce, washing, drying and putting their clothes way…I just don’t care about my own laundry. Or my husband’s. I saw him digging around for clean underwear the other day. He looked hopeful at one point when he picked up a pair of green briefs hidden under the table at the foot of our bed, but they failed the sniff test. So when I complain that I have nothing to wear I’m not embellishing; I literally have no clothes sans shit, food or stains.
My kids are amazing bla bla bla.
Translation: Sometimes I forget you don’t care about my kids quite as much as I do. Just try to remember that most of my day revolves around them, so much of what I have to talk about is…them. I am trying to have a real conversation with you like we used to, but instead of war stories about the bars or tales of creepy bosses, I have war stories about my children and tales of their creepiness. It’s ok to interrupt me and ask politely to talk about something else. Really.
I will definitely be there on Friday.
Translation: I hope and pray that there will be nothing to stop me from our plans. But once the universe knows I’m excited about something, things may go badly. Colds and fevers always tend to hit right before an event. As do injuries, work emergencies and crazy bad traffic. My intentions are good but the sometimes the turn of events is not.
Thanks for watching my kids.
Translation: Thank you with the power of one thousand burning suns. You have no idea how rare it is that both my husband and I get to go somewhere without the kids. Knowing that they are with people who love them allows us the pleasure to relax and talk like adults. A simple “thank you” does not cover our appreciation. *See aforementioned translation on how hard it is to find a goddamn babysitter.
About Me My name is Chelsey, I am a mother of two. A wife to an amazing husband. A friend to questionably sane but highly interesting people. I have dreams and aspirations. I thought Eminem’s song, “Rock Bottom” was speaking directly to me in the 8th grade (NOTE: I was a middle-class, white, suburban hippie-child). I don’t flush every time that I pee. I have a lot to say, and little time to do it.
To read more visit Chelsey at diaryofamommy.com
This post was originally published on diaryofamommy.com