So I've been in a mom-funk. Clearly, as this is the second blog post this month and it's already the 20th.
I've been slacking on the laundry - Preston wore size 2T pjs the other night because all his others were dirty. Sometimes he doesn't get bathed every other day, and I stretch it to the morning of day three - like today - where I caught a hint of ol' bum pits again.
I don't even feel like I'm teaching him adequately. Yes, we've been reading books, and he did learn 'arm' and 'leg' this evening. But I'm not 'into it' like I should be. So I declare, mom-funk.
Perhaps it's because I just turned an ugly 33. Or, the fact that I'm a bit homesick. And maybe it's because I can't find the motivation to get back on the eating healthier and exercising bandwagon. And it's spring and I'm out of shape and pasty white.
Uggh. Alas, I know this is mom-funk is temporary.
And of course, the little one isn't about to throw his mamma a bone. Nope, Preston's been testing my spirits and trying to break me down with consistent naughty behavior and unbelievably strong will. Yesterday I nearly lost it...you could have found me rocking back and forth in the corner humming a Raffi song.
Besides touching things he shouldn't (like electrical outlets) and throwing toddler-style tantrums, he's also been boycotting veggies. To which I thought I'd one-up him and serve ravioli Mini-Bites from Chef Boyardee for dinner.
Apparently those little bites have a full serving of veggies. This doesn't compare to steamed zucchini or baked potatoes, but like I said, Preston won't eat those right now.
At first reserved, Preston dug right into the pasta. Yes, with his hands...as he's also anti-mom-feeding-me-anything. Within minutes he'd devoured a healthy serving. And within minutes his tray, hands, ears, and face were stained an orange only an Oompa Loompa could appreciate.
Into the tub he went. After 15 minutes of scrubbing, his orange skin had faded to a lovely shade of jaundice. And a distinct oily ring was left around the tub.
I couldn't believe this??!! Can this orange stuff really be good to ingest? Shouldn't there be a warning on the label? Some sort of disclaimer to let the consumer know this crap is going to stain everything it comes in contact with?
So in my fragile mom-funk state, I thought I'd outsmart the boy. But giving him a canned meal only turned into an unexpected bath AND the cleaning of the tub itself. Ugh.
All I can do is sigh, and take a shot of whiskey. Shut my eyes, fall asleep, wake and do it all over again. Except without the ravioli, of course.