Chichimama has been banished to a spa on the shore with 3 other mommies. She needed it and I hope she sleeps! Unfortunately for her, the weather is supposed to suck, but perhaps she can slip in an extra hot-stone massage or something since she can’t be at the beach.

Luckily for me, the kids went down without a problem (helps when they don’t nap I ‘spose). But this weekend should be interesting with people coming over to look at the house and an open house on Sunday. I think I’m going to grab the kids and high-tail it to the City to stay at my parent’s apartment while they’re in Florida!

Over the past few days there has been much yelling here at Chez J-E. And I keep forgetting that windows are open, so the whole neighborhood now knows that C doesn’t listen and that A throws a temper tantrum like nobody’s business and that I can’t keep my cool when faced with two children who dump cup after cup of water on my newly cleaned kitchen floor.

The kids are overtired, I’m stressed out about selling the house, and M has just been grumpy. Today, I swear no one listened to a word I said all. day. long. At nap time today (although there were no naps involved) C asked “Are you sorry for yelling so much?” To which I honestly replied “No, not really. I’m sorry I had to yell but since you refused to pay attention to me in my normal voice, I had to yell. A lot. So no, I’m not really sorry.” To which he replied “Well, I’m not sorry that I didn’t listen.” Point taken.

I really never thought I would be a mommy who yelled a lot, but that seems to be who I have become. I’m not sure whether the problem is my inflexibility and unrealistic expectations, or our failure to raise well-behaved children, or a combo of both. But lately I can’t seem to get anyone to listen to me unless I’m screaming. And even then, it’s touch and go.

Right now A is lying in the upstairs hall because we battled for an hour and a half over her going to bed. I finally gave up and walked downstairs. It was that or break many breakable items against a wall. And while the sound of china hitting a wall might have been satisfying, I would have been stuck cleaning it up before my real estate agents start arriving on my doorstep tomorrow morning.

I really feel like I am failing miserably as a mother right now. I have minimal control at best over my children. And I’m unsure how to get control back. Time outs no longer work, and taking away toys and privileges doesn’t seem to be doing much either. I would like to think this is a phase, or the age, or something, but have a sinking feeling it is all about me and my lack of parenting skills. Don’t mind the pity party here, between this and the skinny jeans I think I should just crawl into a cave and hibernate for the next 20 years or so.

So apparently, skinny jeans are making a comeback. Even Target is carrying them.Yep, you heard me. Do you want to know WHY they are making a comeback? Because I just donated my last pair thinking “No reason to hold onto these, skinny jeans are never coming back into style.”

I didn’t look good in skinny jeans before I had two kids, now that I have had two kids and the thighs and rear have, shall we say, “spread a little,” I will look terrible in them. I’m running out to stock up on boot cuts right now. Because before long they’ll be gone.

The other night I dreamt that I was pregnant with our third child. It was a girl, whose name was going to be Allison. Despite the fact that Allison is the one name we would never, ever name a child. Anywhoo, I dropped C and A off at camp, headed to the hospital, and had Allison a few minutes later. Didn’t even bother to call M. Once Allison was born and cleaned up, I checked us both out of the hospital and headed back to camp to pick up C and A. I woke up from the dream and started looking for the bassinet, convinced that Allison needed to be fed.

And yes, my labors are fast enough that this actually could happen. But poor, poor Allison. What a life she would lead.

This is part of the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas collective writing project. While I don’t think I can top Susan’s post, as she basically summed it up (the thought of having someone else worry about what to make for dinner and how to clean up after it is just too wondrous to contemplate), I have been thinking long and hard about what a weekend alone at home might be like. As while I have spent weekends away from my kids, I have never spent the night alone in my own house.

If I had a weekend alone in my house, I would sleep as long as I could (like 7 am!) and then get up to make some coffee with plans to get back into bed and read. Except when I got downstairs I would realize there was no skim milk, and I only drink my coffee with skim milk. As I stood at the fridge debating a run to 7-Eleven I would realize that the cats needed to be fed and the dishes in the dishwasher needed to be emptied. By the time I got that done I would be too awake to crawl back into bed so I would give up on the coffee in bed idea and probably whip out the laptop and check on some blogs instead (Hi bloggy friends!).

I would contemplate writing an entry of my own but then remember that there was a load of laundry in the washing machine that really needed to go into the dryer. Upon opening the dryer I would find a load of laundry sitting in there waiting to be folded. I would carry that load upstairs and put it on the bed and then decide to take a shower instead of folding (see, the weekend isn’t a total loss yet! No laundry folding!). After the shower I would think about pulling out a book but decide to peruse my cookbooks instead.

After browsing through some favorites and drooling I would decide that really, since I had to the time, I should plan out a menu for the week to save myself the hassle of the last minute dinner scramble. I would drool over some more recipes then make up a grocery list. Since I already know I am out of milk and I might want a coffee tomorrow morning, I would decide to go to the grocery store. But wait, it gets more exciting! I swear!

On the way to the grocery store I would have to stop for gas. Because whichever car I am driving is always out of gas. While sitting at the gas station I would realize that I had no cash and then head to the bank. The ATM would be out of cash, forcing me to make the rounds of all the banks in town to find money. After finally procuring enough cash for the week, my tummy would start growling.

Here comes the really exciting part; I would go out to lunch. At my favorite restaurant. By myself. I MIGHT even order a brunch cocktail. If I got the cocktail, I would then have to head home for a nap, because a mimosa at noon would put me right to sleep. But upon arriving home I would find the laundry basket and begin folding. I would probably turn on the TV Food Network, my new addiction, and get sucked into a Rachel Ray marathon. By the time Emeril came on it would be dinnertime.

I would debate ordering out but then feel guilty about making the delivery guy come out for just one person. So I would probably dig a frozen pizza out of the freezer, a close second to takeout. Really! While eating my pizza I would check in on some more blogs (Hi again, bloggy friends!). I would again contemplate an entry of my own, and might even start one. But then I would remember the laundry in the dryer and decide to get a jump start on the week and fold that too.

While folding I would probably turn on the TV again, this time to a sappy chick flick on USA or TBS. I would get sucked into the heart wrenching storyline and crawl into bed with a box of tissues. I would fall asleep with the TV on, but about 2 am I would be woken up by the cat who had gotten left outside. I would troop downstairs to let him in and then head back to bed. But the act of trooping downstairs would wake me up enough that I would toss and turn until 5 am, and finally fall back asleep.

I would wake up at 7 am, head downstairs to make my coffee, and realize that I had never actually made it to the grocery store the day before. I would again debate the run to 7-Eleven, and then get sidetracked again by the cat feeding. At least there would be no dishwasher to empty. I would then race around trying to pick up the house before M and the kids arrived home, and might even make it to the grocery store. Everyone would arrive home, M would ask me what I did, and when I described the weekend to him, he would look at me funny and make a mental note that he was never ever taking the kids away again because really, what was the point.

And that folks, is probably exactly how a weekend alone at home would be. Oh, the excitement. Except, you know, it still sounds kind of lovely. Laundry folding and all.

A: “I have no penut. C have penut.”

C: “I don’t have peanuts A. I’m not allowed. You’re lergic.”

A: “No, no, PENUT.” A points to her diaper.

Mommy: “I think you mean penis A.”

A: “Yeah, yeah. Penut.”

C: “OHHH. That’s why she’s lergic to peanuts. Cause she doesn’t have a penis!”

Our tax returns arrived today from the wondrous D, our accountant who revolutionized my life in March and April. While I was pleased to note that M finally got his withholding right and we neither owed a fortune nor were due a fortune, for the first time I was faced with my new reality. I am officially “homemaker.” This is the first year since C was born that I didn’t make any money of my own. The previous years I have been “consultant” or “fundraiser.” Even if I only made a few thousand dollars. This year, I apparently made not a penny.

While intellectually I knew that I didn’t make anything this year, for some reason I still expected to see “consultant” on my tax return. I mean, that’s how I still see myself, as a writer, consultant, a someone who works from home but still has some professional identity. But the IRS has effectively squashed that fantasy this year. I am “homemaker.” Not even “homemaker extraordinaire.” Just “homemaker.”

Don’t mind me as I go pour myself a big old glass of wine and contemplate my vacuum which hasn’t actually seen the outside of the broom closet for a while. Cause if I’m supposed to be a homemaker I feel like we should probably be better acquainted.