Sunday or Monday
you have to pick a fav'rite
neither doesn't count
On Sundays, while I'm staving off the inevitable Impending Sense of Doom for the week to come, I often have a few minutes of pure, unbridled optimism. I think, "I am going to cook a balanced meal every night for dinner this week!" and "I am going to start a regimen of sit-ups and push-ups and walking around the neighborhood every night so that I can look like Michelle Obama!"
So I do like every other woman does on a Sunday afternoon and I download a recipe app to my phone. I download a workout app to my phone. And then I sit on the couch and think, "Holy shit, I am SO PRODUCTIVE on Sundays!"
Monday rolls around and I wake up thinking, "OK, Week. I will face you. I have the apps to prove it." And things usually start out OK, especially if we've had a nurse on Sunday night and I'm reasonably rested. I greet Ike-a-saurus' day nurse, take the wee-er one to school, come home and have a nice hot shower and think, "See? This week is going to be great!" While I'm in the shower I plan out the menu for the night's dinner. I think about what a reasonable number of sit-ups would be to start my exercise regimen. I am feeling energized, positive, reasonably happy. I even plan on getting some writing done.
Then, I get out of the shower. 38 emails. 3 phone messages. A missing delivery of medical supplies. A web site that won't let me register so that I can submit out-of-network doctor visit claims. Phone calls. More phone calls. Sitting on hold. A nurse cancels for later in the week, so appointments and school pick-up and a million other things have to get rearranged.
Suddenly, it's already time to pick up the wee-er one from school. I dash over there, retrieve her, get her in the car and she starts screaming. She's over tired, she won't eat her lunch. Back home, more phone calls, discussions with the nurse about when and when not to mess with a baby's foreskin. Discussions about the consistency of trach snot.
Why is his stoma red?
(wee-er one screaming in the distance)
Let's put nystatin on it.
(wee-er one wants orange juice at the computer. No way. Screaming restarts.)
Do we have an order for nystatin so that the nurse is allowed to administer it?
(Why isn't Kipper playing? More screaming.)
Can't find the order.
(How about Play-doh instead of Kipper? Screaming.)
Email trach nurse.
Administer nystatin anyway. The wee-er one falls asleep face down on the floor. The wee one is home from school. He needs money/supplies/shoes/papers signed/homework help.
The nurse leaves for the day. Immediately after she leaves, Ike-a-saurus falls down the stairs with a poopy diaper. Much clean-up ensues.
And now. Now it's 5 o'clock. Am I going to make the meat loaf and potato gratin and fresh snap beans I was planning on?
No. I am going to talk to the medical supply company on the phone, arrange for spelling homework to commence, try not to step on the wee-er one who is still sleeping on the floor and who will, in turn, not go to bed at 7:30 as planned, all while keeping Ike from destroying the DVD player with the fork in his hand.
I always have good intentions. Big plans. Calm thoughts. And it all gets clusterfucked to hell and back.
Right now, though, it's Sunday at 1 pm and I am planning to make carrot risotto for dinner tomorrow. I am planning on firming my abs, eliminating this extra ass, and building up my stamina for the March of Dimes walk. I eagerly anticipate a moment or two of sexytime with my husband.
And I can't decide… is it eternal optimism that keeps me like this, or flat out idiocy that I never learn from week to week? The Impending Sense of Doom always wins in the end, doesn't it?
Yet, I still buy the carrots.