We had a capital C-razy weekend. Full of great moments. With great people. But Crazy, just the same. And I was reminded, once again, about the logistics piece of having children. One of my girlfriends came from the east coast and brought her babe on his maiden voyage to the Midwest. And so a brunch was planned. And all I had to do was show up.
Easy peasy, right? Riiiiiight.
Because brunch…
well, brunch done changed, my friends. Not because it’s brunch. But because it’s something that I wasn’t taking my children to. And thus, brunch necessitates planning.
Brunch before children…
:: Tell husband on Friday night that I have Sunday morning brunch plans.
:: Roll outta bed at 9:00.
:: Begrudge that I had to set an alarm.
:: Feel like it was too early to get going.
:: Shower.
:: Try on 7 outfits.
:: Head out the door.
:: Get there on time.
:: Eat as long as I’d like.
:: Go window shopping after.
:: Go home and take a Sunday nap while a Law & Order SVU marathon plays in the background.
Brunch now…
:: Discuss logistics at least a week in advance with the hubs.
:: Realize that he has church set-up that morning. Which means we will have to divide and conquer.
:: Wake up when the cock crows or the children crow. Whichever comes first. Likely at least one of the children.
:: Make kid breakfast and adult breakfast {why don’t my kids like eggs?!}. Brunch isn’t for 3 hours. And my body is used to eating at the first mention of sunlight on the horizon.
:: Take three bites of breakfast. Baby wakes.
:: Feed baby.
:: Give baby breakfast.
:: Go back to eating breakfast.
:: Note that the other children have only taken 1 bite of breakfast and are now playing “name that tune”.
:: Coax them to eat at least one more nibble.
:: Finish breakfast.
:: Clean up breakfast.
:: Put very mobile baby in jumper for hope of 10 minutes to shower. And to avoid any possible Lego eating or paper chewing by said baby.
:: Wash, shave, suds up hair in less than 5 minutes. Knowing full-well that the legs are only shaved below the knee. But at least the pits are clear.
:: Hear baby’s dissatisfaction with jumper situation.
:: Comb hair, throw up in towel, throw on first outfit {the outfit I put on while still at home, until the very minute I am ready to walk out the door to avoid any spit-up situation marring the shirt I actually intend to wear in public}
:: Grab makeup bag.
:: Break up scuffle between two olders which seems to be over one of the 24,962 red Legos we own.
:: Plop down in front of jumper and put makeup on, sans mirror {thank you, sorority life}.
:: Middlest grabs makeup brushes and uses them to “comb his hair and face” while I secretly silently beg that he doesn’t drag them through any spit, or snot, or bodily substance before I reacquire.
:: Makeup complete in two minutes.
:: Bribe middlest to return my brushes by offering a snack.
:: Get babe out of jumper.
:: Cart babe to bathroom where I proceed between a mix of blow drying with one hand, blowing the dryer at him to make him giggle, and attempting to convince him he wants to be on the floor, free from mama. The last of which is completely impossible.
:: Make mental note to get a buzz cut next time I visit the salon.
:: Curl hair.
:: Get snack for children.
:: Give 5 minute warning. Ask boys to find shoes post-snack.
:: Put in earrings. Settle for studs. And no necklace. Noting that those aggravate the baby because he wants to eat them.
:: Ask boys if they’ve located shoes.
:: Get together lunch for babe. Diapers. Wipes.
:: Come out and help boys find shoes. Exactly where they’d put them the night before.
:: Get shoes on big boys while they move around, wiggle, and perform movements reminiscent of cirque du soleil in an effort to make shoe fitting the most ridiculous task ever.
:: Nurse babe.
:: Tie boys’ shoes while nursing babe. Yep.
:: Wait for babe to urp.
:: Babe spits up. Wipe up babe.
:: Change into actual outfit. Throw first outfit in corner of closet so it’s there for its next assignment.
:: Hold baby with outstretched arms as I hear him start to urp again.
:: Wipe up spit-up from the floor with the bottom of my own shoe. Make mental note that carpet cleaning is overdue.
:: Grab keys. Coats. Diapers. Wipes. Lunch for babe.
:: Ask middlest to hit the toilet one last time.
:: Load all boys into car.
:: Go back in for sunglasses which I could have sworn I left in the car but the middlest may have accidentally found and brought in with him.
:: Locate sunglasses.
:: Realize I haven’t peed since last night. Steal a moment to do so.
:: Drive boys to church.
:: Drop offspring with husby.
:: Swap out keys.
:: Text girls that I am running late.
:: Drive in non-family car. Free of carseats.
:: Get to brunch. Late late late.
:: Catch my breath.
:: Wait for table.
:: Get seated. Place phone prominently in front of me.
:: Search the menu for alcohol. Girlfriend confirms there is no alcohol.
:: Realize there’s no alcohol.
:: Settle for coffee.
:: Breathe.
:: Eat. Secretly thankful that I am just feeding myself. And yet a little anxious about that as well. Contemplate offering to cut up other’s food. Decide that’s weird.
:: Enjoy time with friends. Kiss babies. Babies who happen to be the two most content 8 week olds I’ve ever spent time with. Secretly curse the universe for making babies who are so content.
:: Hugs goodbye.
:: Split in time to get home for feeding babe who begrudges the bottle.
Basically the same, right?
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