It's Friday, one day after National Chocolate Day and I'm still celebrating with my trusty bag o' chocolate chips. Well, to be honest, I'm not really celebrating, I'm self-medicating. It's been one of those days and it's barely the afternoon. You know the kind of day (er, morning) I mean. I could sum it up for you but you really don't need me to because you've most likely had a similar morning if you have someone under the age of two in your house. OK, well, since I've got a little time, I'll fill you in on my day thus far and we can compare notes later.
For starters, the brain-numbing chorus of "Sleeping Bunnies" has been the background soundtrack in my head all morning, which I think registers as a twenty-five on the chocolate chip prescription scale. *wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies* That may or may not have just been a subtle cry for help.
To continue, there's been a lot of somewhat troubling snacking taking place this morning: i.e. fuzz from a q-tip (just to clarify, it was an unused q-tip), hair from my hairbrush, pages of children's books, stale Cheerios from the carpet, toilet paper (also, unused), rusted pieces of an old tag stapled under our fifty year old dining room table (why?), etc. You get the picture. You'd think I was keeping a very untidy house, but if you'll remember, I'm borderline obsessive compulsive, so our house is pretty neat by most standards. This means, as you may have surmised, that my sweet baby is having to be uber-creative in his acquisition of these unusual snack choices.
Moving on. This may in fact be the straw that eventually breaks the mama's back, whatever that may entail. Thomas the Train is considered the stuff of legend in our home and all things somehow come back around to this great beacon of railroading glory. We have toy trains that sound like Thomas and toy trains that can float in your bathtub and trains that can fit in your pocket for convenient portability on that quick trip to the Starbucks for a cup of sanity. We also have access to all sorts of Thomas footage on our streaming Netflix which means that at any given moment, someone is standing in front of the television pointing insistently while also repeating the two words that I hear in my deepest of deep sleeps: "CHOO CHOO." I estimate that I have heard those two words atleast 435 times this morning. It has almost pushed me to the edge. Luckily, naptime stepped in and saved us both.
Lastly, there is the insistence on doing every single thing that is NOT allowed rather than doing the plethora of things that ARE allowed. A list of what is allowed includes: playing with one's many, many toys; reading one's many, many books; eating the relatively nutritious snacks that have been set out for you; etc. A quick list of what is not allowed but is apparently loads more fun: climbing onto the toilet in order to reach daddy's razor, throwing mama's toiletries down the stairs just to see them bounce off of each step, eating the somewhat unclassifiable items one discovers mashed into the carpet, dumping out anything and everything that can be dumped out, turning over laundry baskets in order to stand on them and give dramatic oratories on "choo choos," attempting to skydive off the edge of the sofa into a small basket, digging through the bathroom wastebasket for treasures, ETC. And, this, my friends, is merely an abbreviated list of the limitless possibilities of "fun" as defined by Sam.
So, here I sit while the boy sleeps, typing this little post and wondering if I will survive the afternoon. It's possible I won't. But, if I do, it will only be by the grace of God and this bag of chocolate chips I have slowly but surely finished off.