So here’s our deal. You may find grammar mishaps, spelling blips, and the misused Oxford comma sprinkled throughout this blog.  This is all part of my “process.”  You might be all “This lady is a college English professor, but doesn’t know when to use who versus whom!”  Or… “Even my second grader knows the difference between hole and whole.”   Believe me, I get it because I can get judgy too.  But, you gotta take into consideration that each post is a micro-miracle.  When I press publish, it signifies that I survived the day plus ignored my anxiety and screaming kids in the background. Take a walk through a partial day with me last week, pictures included, then let a comma splice or two slide.

I feel pretty darn good considering Jordana wakes us up four times throughout the night for the following: arm pain, creepy noise, sleep is a waste of time (per her words), blanket fell off bed (seriously girl????).  Each time, I ache to scream get the F back in bed, but refrain.  Instead I roll over and let Keith deal with it.  Rock star parent here.

Juliette wakes up at 4 a.m.  I dash in to nurse and lull her back to sleep. But…. she shrieks until 5:30 a.m. when she finally conks.  Nice, Juliette.  Just in time for Keith’s alarm clock to squeal.  Poor Keith. He leaves for work by 6:00 a.m. every day.  Poor Keith???  Don’t go there.  Keith bypasses the whole morning explosion and sips a piping hot Dunkin’ on his leisurely car ride.  I get through a quarter of my mug while it’s still lukewarm dishwater.  I resent you Keith and your freshly starched shirts.

Oh yeah!!!  I make it through the morning tornado.  The big kids are up and screaming at each other by 6:15 a.m.  However, they are dressed semi-appropriately for the weather (why didn’t my app predict rain last night???), I remember to pack healthyish lunches, and pull the correct homework off the counter stack.  Bonus time!  We merely have four collective tantrums before 7 a.m. (dressing aversion, inadequate breakfast options, sibling hitting incident, Mom why don’t you EVER drive us?). I push the offspring into their buses without yelping any profanities or taking tonight’s dessert hostage. Hot Damn I’m good.

Basket based organizational system. Fail. 

I shove my boobs in the baby’s mouth and follow them up with something pureed.  No shower, but I don’t stink.  I have four new t-shirts to choose from, 6.00 bucks each at Target (they are super comfy and maybe still on sale http://www.target.com/p/women-s-softest-scoop-tee-merona-153/-/A-51805768).  Score! Oh wait, no clean leggings, but there’s a crumply pair wedged in the closet door.  No makeup, hair’s a brillo pad at the end of its lifespan, but I can do it.  I can get to the gym for that hour of free babysitting and self-care.  Come on girl.  Get it!

Shoot where are my Bleep Bleep keys?  I can’t find them in this minivan mess. I repeat, our leased minivan.  How practical is a minivan if it swallows up all the crap you stuff into it? See Keith, totally impractical.  The trusty push-button start means I can screw finding those puppies for now.

You can’t see the spilled coffee residue and moldy crusts, but yes, that’s Tickle Me Elmo. If I have to listen to that demonic laugh all day, my editing is allowed to suck.

Of course, Juliette falls asleep on the seven-minute minivan ride to the gym, meaning no morning nap and probably no nap, period.  Crap.  Still, I will exercise. I can do it.  My morning jolt of caffeine is waning, and DAMNNNN this parking lot always resembles Walmart on Black Friday.  I might still exercise, but I could sit here phone surfing and let Juliette get vital rest for her development.  I could reroute to Starbucks for a cold brew.  Jamie, remember, free childcare.

Seriously??? I mean, I know I’m here to get exercise, but…I’m… lazy.

Yes! I dig my keys out of the abyss.  I piss off the baby, plop her in with strangers and snot nosed kids, then hit the elliptical and the treadtilldeadmill before I can change my mind. Oh Yeah!  This gym routine is totally dissolving my post-baby pudge because look at everyone checking this bod out.  Or are they staring at my saggy boobs?  Or at my tummy pooch? Ugh, sports bras. Ugh, muffin middle.

Hour workout complete.  I’m supposed to feel a euphoric endorphin surge, right? Instead, I’ve been struck by a slowly moving car that says “student driver” on it. I need my hit of Starbucks to get through the grocery store without a collapse in frozen foods with organic pancakes just out of reach.

Yeah!  I make it through the maze without swearing, striking a miserable shopper with my cart, or crouching behind the bananas to avoid anyone I recognize.   I even remember to hand over my filthy reusable bags, which are now stuffed with groceries.  I truly am saving the environment single-handedly.  Wait, I reach for my wallet, you know the one attached to my key? I swear I had them a millisecond ago.  Shoot.  The cashier gives me a pityish/annoyish look and shoos me off to the courtesy desk. The folks on the checkout line shoot me serial-killer-style-stares.  For god’s sake people, I have this cute baby. Cute baby smile’s not cutting it, so I cower in the corner while customer service makes a store-wide announcement on behalf the negligent loon and her missing keys.  Maybe I’ll stick the baby under my arm like a baguette and sprint.  Alas, a sweet young employee locates the missing wallet at the olive bar, credit card and license untouched.  I want to French him but settle for a polite thank you instead.  Wholesomeness still exists in this world.

Fancy, right? This little cutie from Keith was the one thing from Louie he could afford.  He gifted it, so I wouldn’t misplace my keys anymore….Ooops.

Still going strong! We are able to pay and speed just enough to grab Jackson from Pre-K by 12:30 p.m.   For the entire ride home, I listen to a chorus of “I have to go to the potty” mingled with pre-pubescent kids singing weirdly adult songs on Kidz Bop.  Juliette misses out on the musical composition because she finds the whopping fifteen-minute ride opportune for her second nap.  We hoof it home in the van as I chant “You can hold it.”  Accident averted.  Jackson poop snakes into the potty then washes hands. CRACKKKKKKK!  “MOOOOMMMYYYY, OOOPPPPS.”  The little bugger exits the bathroom with a sly grin.  He has purposely smashed the porcelain soap dispenser during his hand cleansing routine. Thanks, bud.

Yup. I don’t think there’s any resurrecting this one.                     The replacement is this classy plastic/paper number!

I slam the fridge so I can tend to bathroom crisis, smashing the organic eggs I just toted home.  Plug in your own expletive here.

Nice! I realized the vat of grated parm was moldy too.

After 100 Clorox wipes, running the vacuum, setting Jackson in the timeout chair, and booting the baby to the Pack and Play, I bolt upstairs to shed my gym wear before the sitter arrives, so I can tote my severely anxious daughter to therapy.  As I rip off my shirt (boy I stink), I realize why all those workerouters were glaring at my chest.  Come on!!!   Couldn’t someone do me a solid and point out this plastered on Merona sticker?   Screw you all- you fit and trim people of the YMCA.  I hope you stumble off your machines and sprain limbs.

Yep. That’s the shirt, and my closet is actually pretty neat and tidy here!

Still, it’s been a decent day.  I will make it in time to nab my kid from school and get her the weekly support she requires. I will return in time to: throw together nutrients, triumph over homework war, heave kids into sudsy water, and stick boobs between baby’s lips again…. You get it.

So dont judge me wen I mispel in my posts or make other grammarical erors.  It’s absolutely satisfactory to berate me for being bougie*, insecure, superficial, rude to my spouse, hateful towards minivans and/or for my closet size.   I’ll own that stuff.

*Bougie

adjective