The true story of a Tuesday night

I wrote this on Tuesday night, but I let it sit for a bit before publishing... I wanted to make sure it was really worth "putting it all out there." I think maybe it is.

I was thinking about it the other day and I realized that a casual reader of our blog could conclude that this circus runs pretty smoothly. One might believe that our children are well-behaved and articulate, that we parent with calm confidence, that our home is always neat and tidy. In short, one might be laboring under the illusion that I actually know what I'm doing.

Friends, I have one thing to say about that:

It couldn't be further from the truth.

In the interest of authenticity, I offer up the tale of this evening. Jim is in the city for a "welcoming the new PhD students" event, so I'm at home with the kids alone. I ask the girls what they want for dinner, and Madeline pipes up, "Mac cheese!" So, instead of cooking a real dinner, I break out a box of Annie's macaroni and cheese.

I sit the girls at their little table with their macaroni and cheese. (And some fruits and veggies, to assuage my mommy guilt. We did have some good bonding in the kitchen while the pasta cooked, though, eating sugar snap peas, carrots, mini bell peppers and hummus right out of the containers. I thought: these are definitely my kids.) While they eat, I call my sister and light the grill.

My sister and I are commiserating about teething infants when I put two chicken apple sausages on the grill and realize that Indy's been sleeping for quite some time. This third nap is supposed to be short -- like 45 minutes -- but he's been sleeping for well over an hour and a half. In the interest and hope of sleeping tonight, I dash upstairs and wake him.

I bring him downstairs and feed him quickly. The girls are still eating, though they need to be reminded to stay at the table more than once. I'm still talking to my sister as I plunk Indy into his Bumbo and clear the girls' dinner plates.

It's at this point that I remember I was going to feed them some protein and dash out to get the sausage. It's completely charred. I know I won't be able to convince the girls to eat it, so I toss one. Feeling guilty, I eat the other while I'm still standing in the kitchen. I think I read somewhere that charcoal's good for your digestive system. I hope that's true, because that's about all the sausage had to recommend it.

Kathleen reminds me that we bought chocolate ice cream at Trader Joe's today, and so I dish up some ice cream for the girls. I don't partake myself -- I'm feeling virtuous (read: concerned about wearing a bridesmaid's dress in three and a half weeks) and I'm looking forward to snacking on some tangy plain frozen yogurt and a few almonds once the kids are in bed. As I deliver the ice cream to the little table, Indy begins to fuss a bit. I assume that he's getting a bit bored of the "Kathleen and Madeline eating" show and transfer him to the exersaucer.

I return to the kitchen to put away the ice cream, sacrificing my virtue and my waistline for a couple spoonfuls of chocolatey goodness -- right from the container. Still chatting with my sister, I'm leaning against the counter and licking the spoon when I look down and realize that the front of my shirt is covered (covered) with a thick layer of baby poop.

Somehow I moved my four month old without even realizing he'd had an enormous diaper blowout. (All that reading about intentional parenting is really paying off, isn't?) There's a mess on my shirt, a mess in the Bumbo, and a mess in the exersaucer. And my sweet little boy? He's a wreck, but he's not even complaining.

I relay this news to my sister, concluding with, "So, I'm gonna go." She doesn't manage to stop laughing before I hang up. Just then, the girls announce that they are finished with ice cream. They are.

Photos of chocolate ice cream seemed worthwhile. Indy's diaper blowout? Not so much.

So am I.

I toss my slimy shirt onto the laundry pile on the washer and hustle everyone upstairs (after taking the pictures and not before Madeline manages to put her chocolate-y hands all over everything) and into the bath. Well, the girls go into the bathtub. Indy lies on a towel next to the sink while I lather him up with one of those environmentally irresponsible but seductively convenient disposable washcloths. When he's good and soapy, I rinse him in the tub with the girls. Once he's rinsed and dried and pajama-ed, I lie him in the hallway where he can see us and proceed to clean the girls. Poor Indy screams bloody murder the entire time: all through the washing and shampoo and rinsing and drying and lotioning and dressing.

When I do finally pick him up, he's not much comforted. We head downstairs anyway and make our way through two stories. Indy fusses on and off during the reading. His crying is briefly eclipsed by Madeline, who tripped over a mess of toys and into her little chair, but she recovers. I explain to the girls that I'm putting Indy to bed (they're to be quiet and to stay downstairs) and escape upstairs to settle the baby.

He's exhausted, so he quiets pretty quickly. But he startles when I'm forced to come to the landing to remind Madeline to be quiet (she's wailing about some perceived injustice which Kathleen denies). I've gotten him nice and calm and drowsy and am laying him in the crib when Kathleen flies into the room with a cut that requires a band-aid immediately.

I glare and back out of the room, hoping he'll still go to sleep. By the time I get downstairs and apply a band-aid to Kathleen's finger, it's clear that he's not sleeping. But at this point there's not much I can do for him, so he's left to fuss while I try to get the girls to bed.

We manage the normal bedtime routine -- with a detour for yet another band-aid for Kathleen's finger. I leave the girls and finally settle poor Indy. It's not until I'm making the bed in my room (with the sheets that should have been washed yesterday but were only washed today) that I realize I've completely forgotten to brush the girls' teeth. And I've never replaced the shirt that I left on the laundry pile. I've done all this in shorts and a jogging bra.

It's not my best night. Obviously. But there you have it: real life at the circus.

Now that I'm decently clad and everything's been picked up and the trash has been taken out, I'm thinking about that frozen yogurt.

But maybe I'll trade it in for a glass of cheap red wine.

Or maybe I'll just have both.