Day five (or, the Fates are Fucking with me.)

Really, day five was just a continuation of day four, as Zia was awake all night. I guess we had to pay for that pizza shortcut somehow. Waking every twenty minutes to her agonized screams is its own special kind of torture that properly prepared me for today;)

But, to truly prepare for the day, a shower was an absolute MUST. Out of other options, i dragged the baby into the shower with me. While she didn't play happily on the bathtub floor quite the way I envisioned, I'm able to curl twenty pounds in one arm while scrubbing things in the other pretty well by this point in my parenting career and thus, emerged clean(ish). This felt sadly triumphant.

I was less triumphant about procuring groceries post breakfast and we landed in the attic instead. Where Zia managed to punch out a window with her foot as P and I looked on in shock, glass banging down the steep slant of the roof. This gave her a story to tell ALL day. Fortunately, that was all it gave her. Obviously, it was nap time.

I researched window repair and fixed food. P was forgiving. Then the toilet stopped working.

Z, not quite done with me, woke seeming seconds after falling asleep and I, imagining eight solo hours straight in the attic until bedtime, felt a heightened level of desperation. I begged a hike. The children, bless them, agreed.

Bundled and woolened we drove into the west hills mist for a splendid hike. An adventure outdoors will fix most any day for me. P was lively and loving the mist. Z, well, there were quite a few traumas... but also happiness.

Revived, I reckoned I'd make the meatball soup upon our return after all, rather than the lame dinner I'd started planning when the toilet tanked. Zia, thankfully, busied herself at my feet and I shoved stuff in a pot. The meatballs mixed, I went to dump them in when I noticed a crunch at my toes...

Z had found a rice cake (or three) and waged war. For anyone who has wasted their mouth on such an item but not shredded it to bits by hand, let me tell you that it not only tastes like styrofoam, it sticks to everything the same as well. My sigh of annoyance was mimicked by a sad sound from my cooktop. Which then shut down. And would not turn back on.

The silver lining to buying an aging, illegal triplex ignited hope within me and i lugged the cauldron upstairs, feeling the Fates full belly cackles following me. I glared at the broken window while I waited for the little stove upstairs to heat. At least we have this backup stove. That promptly started smoking. Yes.

P and I are reading the Percy Jackson book during Z's naps (per his friend's instruction) and thus all things Greek are hot topics here. Therefore, it didn't seem completely inappropriate that I suddenly felt like a picked on pawn in a bored god's game.

I muttered about fecking Fates as I picked rice cake off of my socks and ran up and down the stairs cooking. Zia decided spreading the six loads of laundry I'd heroically washed in the last two days in front of the stairwell door was the perfect response to this situation. By this point, I had to laugh.

Because I don't like to cry in front of the children ;). And then I realized, I'm stronger, better, when Superman is gone. It's all on me. I can't get cranky and know he'll make up for it. I can't lean towards drama, knowing he'll balance it out. I'm all the kindness, all the reassurance for the kids. It's all me, all day long. Usually, those last three hours of the day I get to relax my standards a titch, banking on our average. And today it hit me, he may be gone from 5 AM TO 6 PM every day, but those few hours he is home are Huge. It's not just the recycling (which I Did take out;). It's the mindset. I have an escape hatch, a backup parachute, always there in my mind. The fact that he comes through that door for dinner each night makes the whole day feel different.

I love being married. To him.

So, the Little Man labeled the soup sublime and the meatballs magnificent (seriously, he said that;). I boarded up the broken window, plunged the toilet, finished the laundry and played trains, books and blocks until bedtime. And as we had our evening snack, it hit me that turning shit off always seems to fix computer stuff (hey, its not my strong-suit;). So I flip a breaker and count to thirty.

Fuck those fates, the stove works again.

But I still can't wait to hug my man and average out again:)