The Grilled Bologna Muenster

The age old question asks, "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

I have been asking that same question today, only more like this: Which came first, my spiraling-out-of-control, wrong-side-of-the-bed-ness, or this Tuesday's determination to beat me over the head.

Maybe that doesn't make sense, but have you ever noticed how good days seldom go bad, but how bad days never get good? That wrong-side-of-the-bed nonsense you thought your parents just tormented you with, is real, and once it's been done it is very difficult to undo.

You see, I'll admit, after having such a productive and fabulous Monday, I was a bit blindsided by Tuesday, but it was really Monday's fault, stupid Monday.

Monday was great. I met a friend for a run at 5:30 in the morning. I was skeptical of how the rest of the day was going to go after that, but I felt great. My dad was right after all. All those years ago he always told me I'd feel better and be more productive if I'd just hit the gym first thing in the morning, and time has proven him wiser than I once thought. I got back from the run around 6:30, and got some breakfast, a shower, and started the laundry and cleaning up the living room before the kids had even woken up. Usually all of that doesn't happen until Sesame Street starts around 10 am. 

I continued on with my ambitious, overachieving mommy-ness, pretty certain that if anyone were watching me they would see the perfect Disney Princess Mommy whistling while I worked, dancing with a broom (vacuum), and all those perfectly acceptable things that Disney cartoons do. I even made the kids eggs and toast for breakfast which I don't do because I don't like creating more dishes in a day than I have to, but the sink was cleared the night before, and I was a Disney Princess Mommy, so why not?

I walked the kids to the park, had them down for a nap by 2, had dinner on the table by 5:30 and the dishes all done by 6:30, and was playing "train tracks" with them by 6:45. I was the queen of' Monday.

But somewhere around 9:30 pm, it all began to backfire. I was absolutely exhausted, but I had to go out to the store and pick up some things. I don't get the car often, so I do the grocery shopping whenever I can. By the time I had put all the groceries away it was almost 11, and I was feeling more awake.

Long story short here, I missed my window of exhaustion (you all know what I'm talking about), and wasn't able to fall asleep until nearly 2 am! I was thinking that was no big deal until I woke up abruptly at 5:30 am to constant, dull thumping.

"Cricket farts?" I thought. They were happening so rapidly I thought for sure Elijah had fallen out of bed, and was now throwing himself a sleepy tantrum on the floor. I jumped up and rushed to their bedroom door, only to stand there in silence. I went to the bathroom, and heard some voices, and realized that someone was in the upstairs apartment. I really wish our landlord would give us a heads up when that's going to happen, since the place has been empty for a couple months now. Better yet, I wish that just once we'd live underneath people that don't stomp around their apartment from 5:30 am until 8 am. I put in my ear plugs and got back to sleep sometime around 6:30, thinking I could still get caught up enough to function, but then the kids picked this morning to be the only morning in over two weeks that they would be up before 8:30 am. 7:40 am they were up and raring to go.

I threw a fit, flung the blankets off me in a heap, and stomped out of bed and down the hall. Not my finest moment.

I was instantly greeted by Elijah, whining, "Mommy, I'm huuuuungry!"

I answered, "That's nice, Elijah." He understood that was his cue to remember his manners, and asked, in the same whining voice, "May I have someting to eat, puheeaase!?"

No longer a Disney Princess Mommy, I slammed some cereal into a bowl as they both yelled, "Can we eat with our hands?!" They like to eat dry cereal, so I gave them their bowls, and proceeded to get them some juice, but before I could even get the juice poured, Chastity had spilled half her bowl of cereal on her way to the table, and Selah (our dog) was chowing down on it. I snatched the bowl from Chastity's hands and set it on the table myself, just knowing that was the only way it would make it there. I retrieved the juice, put them down in front of the kids, and collapsed on the couch. I had gone from annoyed that I couldn't sleep, to irritated with our new neighbors, to completely livid that the kids would dare to get up before 8:30. The Cinderella from yesterday was now the wicked stepmother. 

I was lying on the couch, naively believing the kids would sit at their table and quietly eat their breakfast and drink their juice. No such luck. They were dancing around, shouting nonsensical words, and Chastity thought it was best to do such things right in my face, and then began prying my eyes open with her fingers. They began climbing all over me. Blast that dry cereal! Had I given them milk and a spoon they would have had to sit down to eat it. I was clearly too tired to think these things through.

I gradually got my act together, and became more productive, but no less grumpy. I got my Earl Gray, and some breakfast, and got the beds stripped down to wash. I got the kids dressed, and got their train tracks set up to play with, and I went to take care of the dishes. Just after getting my hands in the soapy water my phone began to ring. 866 number. Ignore.

As soon as I started the dishes, Chastity and Elijah were both screaming at each other.

"Play nice!" I yelled, and when that didn't work I marched in there and threatened to take the train away. They calmed down, but still weren't any less whiney. I just got the gloves back on when Chastity had to go potty. I stripped her down, and got her on the potty, and watched as the pee shot straight out, not down as one might think, and all over the seat and floor. What the...? This topic deserves it's own blog, but lets just say that everyone warns you about boys peeing on you and everywhere, but no one will tell you that a girl can, and will do the same things...sometimes even worse.

I got her and the mess cleaned up, and went to wash my hands for the umpteenth time, and the burning of the split in my cracked finger became alarmingly painful. And then Mr. 866 was calling again. IGNORE.

 I finished up the dishes, and immediately had to begin thinking about lunch, as Elijah, in his stealth like ways, showed up right behind me after I took of my dish washing gloves, whining, "Mommy! I'm huuuuuuungry!" I tried hard not to lash out at this poor child just for wanting a basic need, but my mood at that point was very dependent upon his tone, and he was not striking the proper tone with me.

"That's nice, Elijah," I said as calmly as I could muster, which was probably the tone of a snotty teenage girl.

"May I have someting to eat, puuheeease?"

Now my creative juices were flowing as I realized we didn't have many lunch options, and the kids had been eating cheese sticks with rolled up meat for weeks. They prefer that to sandwiches, but I was bound and determined to make sandwiches this time. Disney Mommy was digging and clawing her way back, as I asked, "Elijah and Chastity, would you like a special lunch?"

"YEAH!" they both  yelled.

"How does grilled cheese sound?"

"YEAH!"

I was certain we had American cheese, and I began digging through the refrigerator. I was wrong. The only cheese I found, other than cheese sticks, and swiss which the kids don't like, was muenster. I wasn't sure how that would taste to them alone, and remembered the bologna I had bought, buy one get one free last night. Uhhh, sure, why not?

And I realized at the moment I was making my children grilled bologna and muenster sandwiches, in my Disney Mommy hope of winning them back over, that I had hit an all-time mommy low. I was no princess. I was a muenster.

Just then, as if to taunt me, Mr. 866 began calling again. I answered this time, fully prepared to give someone a really hard time, only to hear him hang up. And as I served my grateful, excited children "grilled bologna muensters," the song Good Life by OneRepublic was playing in my head, and the only part I know is the chorus:

Oh, this has gotta be the good life.
This has gotta be the good life.
This could really be a good life, good life. 

Not really knowing the song, instinctively I was annoyed that the same three lines, the only three lines I know, kept replaying in my head. So I looked it up.

My grumpy, spiraling-out-of-control, wrong-side-of-the-bed-ness, grilled bologna muenster didn't hear anything pertaining to me in rest of the song, so I was like, so there, God. Don't be putting secular songs in my head, and making me think you're trying to teach me a lesson.

Then the song ended with one last line now stuck in my head forever.

"please tell me what there is to complain about?"

Maybe, just maybe, my wrong-side-of-the-bed-ness can be undone and this muenster can be a princess again. There is still time left to be the queen of Tuesday too.