I had a feeling from the moment I woke up to my son peeing through his diaper onto my pajamas that today was not going to be "my day." This was confirmed by the previously mentioned child being in the worst mood I have ever seen his in in his life. He usually signs or tells me if he wants more breakfast, and with a relative cheeriness about him. Today, with a spiteful "where's my dinner bitch" look on his face, he SCREAMS to me "MOOOORE MORE MAMA!" But as I go to shovel more oatmeal onto his tray, he slaps the bowl out of my hand and it splatters all over the floor as he shrieks "IM DOOOOONE!" Oatmeal on hardwood floors is not as fun as on carpet, but still fun. He doesn't want to take a bath to hose off the oatmeal, yogurt, and berry juice that is in his hair, nose, ears, left eye, and belly, and then he throws a grand mal tantrum when I get him out. It is at this time that the landlord calls. I love it when people call when my child is carrying on like I'm killing him. He is coming in a few hours to measure sink to put in a new one. This is both good and bad news. It is good because a while ago the sink fell into the cupboard below it because it was being held up by four millimeters of dry-rot for the last 2000 years since the building was built, and he promised me a new sink as soon as he returned from his month long vacation, seven weeks ago. For the time being it was held in place by a board, and the deep side was unusable. I need the deep side to store my dirty dish collection in. Washing dishes as you make them makes sense, but it just isn't my style.
Its bad news because I now have a million things to do in a couple hours, and a grouchy kid who doesn't want me to do anything but wait for him to need me. Sadly, none of the chores I have already done that morning are relevant to the cause.
I despise the monotony of doing chores. So to make things interesting, I write every single little thing I have to do on tiny scraps of paper, ball them up and pull them randomly out of a bag. I have to do the chore I draw no matter how much I hate it. Yes, I'm a whack job, I know, but it helps me, so screw you. So already, I had pulled and completed "clean giant booger that is your fish tank," "you are an evil plant killer," "(Meaning, water the plants. I put bullshit ones in there too, so I can feel like I'm accomplishing a lot.) and "if CPS walked in and saw THAT highchair looking like that..." I like to verbally abuse myself when I clean. But none of these are at all going to help me prepare for the landlord.
First up, I have to de-catify the house. I don't think he could possibly not know that there are four cats living here, but he pretends not to notice, and I don't flaunt them. I'm not supposed to have cats in my building, but they keep coming, and I think given the state of my marriage it is a great time to obtain as many cats as I can possibly get. (And if anybody noticed that I said three before, and four this time, I am fostering a friend's kitty until she finds a new place.) Then I have to do all the dishes , and clean out everything that has accumulated in the big side of the sink that I wasn't supposed to put anything in. Then make it look like I keep things immaculate at all times. Then make the apartment smell like anything other then baby/lizard/cat poo because all the creatures chose TODAY to shit 64 times.
But somehow thanks to my buddy Elmo and some apple slices I was able to pull this off, and have my awesome friend and her adorable toddlers over both for my sanity, and so that the overwhelming amount of ankle biters would assure a quick landlord visit.
And the day got better as it went. I'm getting a granite counter I guess instead of another slapped together-with-lead-paint particle board piece of shit, (a fact that makes me do a tiny, optimistic little George Jefferson strut about when I think about it.) And my son ended our day with a voluntary out-of-the-blue bear hug and a "my Mama!"
I guess I will wait until tomorrow to trade him for a carton of cigarettes or some nice string.:)