In The Weeds.

During my very short and wildly unsuccessful stint as a waitress at The Olive Garden (the salad dressing is poured out of a giant bag! I hope they don't sue me now), I learned the food service term "In the weeds". As most of you probably already know, this means that one is overwhelmed with the amount of work they have to do and is running behind.

As a parent, I'm internally shouting "I'm in the weeds!" multiple times on a daily basis.

For example, getting out of the house. I can prep to get out of the house all day long and never actually get there. At some point I just have to give up on prepping and leave unprepared.

About 30 minutes before I want to leave, I get the baby dressed, she poops on herself, I get her dressed again, she spits up, I get her dressed for a third time. I get Payne dressed (he is always last to put on pants because of the potty training thing). Oh wait, he wants to go potty. He needs help pulling down his pants, then pulling up his pants, then washing his hands, then he plays with the light switch while I try not to yell. Then we put on shoes, after a lengthy search for the other sock that matches the gray one with the two stripes at the top. Then we have to find his cup full of milk, as to avoid another harrowing cleanup like that one time that a milk filled sippy rolled under a chair and stayed there for, oh, a few months before the pressure inside built up enough to spray the contents out onto the floor.....

Where was I? Oh right. About 15 minutes AFTER I wanted to originally leave, I realize the garbage reeks and take it out. Then I wash my hands for the 300th time in three hours. Then I put Genevieve into her car seat. She screams. Then I find out Payne has taken his shoes and socks back off. We put them back on, as I internally count to 100. Then I gather up the requisite outer garments for three people. Grab the diaper bag. Oh crap, I haven't fed the dogs yet. Drop baby, bag, and coats to feed the dogs. Payne closes the laundry room door. I open it back up and explain for the 5000th time that we need to leave it open so the dogs can eat. Genevieve is crying. I wrestle the enormous baby bucket out of the door, over the garbage cans and into the car. In the meant time Payne has run out into the front yard, to grab the hose...again. I call him to the car five times. I go retrieve him via vice grip on upper arm. I watch him slowly enter the car, stopping to turn the cabin light off...again, or pick up a toy or try to open the center console...again. I lose patience and flop him into the seat and buckle him in the manner of a cowboy during the calf roping portion of a rodeo. I realize I forgot my phone...or something, so I run back in wondering if someone will walk by my driveway and judge my mothering skills because the kids are alone in the car. I run back, hop in the car, adjust everything because odds are Dan was last driving it, and I PULL OUT OF THE DRIVEWAY. Oh My Lord. We made it!

I usually get about half of the way out of our neighborhood before I realize I really REALLY have to pee, I have no spare outfit for Genevieve, and Payne's milk is still shoved into his giant plastic piggy bank toy. Oh well, I can wait four hours or so, babies are cute naked, and I know from experience that I have about 48 hours to remember about the milk before the sippy is unsalvagable.

And...we go to TARGET! I remember when going to Target was a chore. Now, it's a victory, my friends! We got OUT of the house! We are among the living! We are observing civilization!

At least when I'm in the weeds at home my customers don't have the knowledge or understanding to ask to speak to management. And even if they did, management is still ME. Ha ha! Unfortunately, this also means I'm only paid in fatty baby leg photos...



Squee! Disembodied cuteness!