Yesterday was a cranky day, kind of day when the boss is never satisfied, no matter how many mini-croissants, crackers, and plums he gets. He just keeps on whining and scowling and pointing at "what he wants" as if it is a very important nothing in particular.
It was the kind of day that tests my motherly patience, where nothing, not even going out to the Early Years Centre, can ease my stress.
It was the kind of day that calls for delicious homemade pizza. I got a pre-made crust, covered it with sauce and shredded cheese and pepperoni. I sauteed some mushrooms and onions and green peppers to put on top. It was going to be the most beautiful pizza in the history of time. But I left it under the broiler too long and it burnt to a crisp.
The sight of my blackened would-be masterpiece actually brought me to tears. It also set off the smoke detector, which sent my already cranky toddler into histeria. It was then that I called my husband and informed him that he had to leave work IMMEDIATELY and that he was not allowed to work late. He left right away and was home an hour later.
We went to Swiss Chalet, where an elderly waitress was too busy to properly take our drink orders. She came by to say they were out of the 7up my husband ordered, but didn't stop long enough to ask what else he might have wanted. Later, our food arrived, but not William's. The main purpose in ordering food for a baby is so he'll have a better chance of keeping quiet while we eat (it's not as if he was actually hungry, as it was well past his usual dinner time). His food arrived, too hot for him to eat, a full ten minutes after ours. What kind of family establishment has logic like that?
When we got home, I asked Adam to put William to bed to give me a much needed break. At that exact moment, a water heater guy came to our door and occupied my husband's time long enough for me too put in a load of laundry, change a poopy diaper, fill the bath tub, and begin washing a tired, cranky, toddler.
It took some talking to convince my husband that getting our son dried off, dressed and reading him stories, was actually part of the bedtime routine he agreed to, but finally he did and I went off to do grown up things.
Later, when I was sound asleep at 5 am, William woke up, crying for no particular reason. I changed his diaper, gave him a sippy cup (which he refused), and lay down beside him so that he would go back to sleep. Apparently my lying on a not-particularly-comfy mattress beside his crib was exactly what he wanted. Every time I thought he was asleep and tried to leave, he would leap up and start screaming anew.
Finally, I crawled back into my own bed at 6:30am. Getting myself back to sleep proved even more difficult that getting William back to sleep. My breakfast instinct had kicked in, so I had to eat a fruitcup to quiet my stomach. By then I wasn't sleepy in the slightest (though still incredibly tired). I finally did drift off about a minute before my husband had to leave for work, which meant I had to wake up, with no shower to assist in my reanimation process.
I just called my mother and woke her up (at 9:30! I'm so jealous) and begged her to come over to let me shower. Of course, if I leave William alone for even five minutes to clean myself, when I come back he will be on top of the kitchen table, or in the dishwasher, or playing with something he pulled out of the garbage.
