Read new “Ladybug Girl” book — twice — to MJ. Apparently I can do this while still technically asleep. Wondered if this skill can be marketed.
Read “Ladybug Girl” book again. Still asleep.
Set MJ up with play dough — old, hard, pink stuff. Tried again, unsuccessfully, to find missing fresh batch of blue and yellow play dough that I made two weeks ago. It disappeared on Mike’s watch. He has put it somewhere berserk.
Played “beach” in utility room. Fake swam. Fake sunbathed.
Woke Mike at 7:45. Made him breakfast. Packed his lunch. Asked him if he knew where play dough was. Described yogurt container it was in. He said “if it was blue and yellow and in a yogurt container I probably threw it away.” Tried not to be exasperated by the lack of logic in this.
Had inspiration. Checked fridge. Yogurt container and play dough found.
Stayed upbeat when MJ refused to play with it because it made her hands cold.
Said good bye to Mike.
Checked e-mail while MJ played “pack for New York” in living room.
Called mother. Felt homesick. Remembered I am home. Felt confused.
Read MJ “Ladybug Girl” book again. Reminded myself that her obsessions generally last only about 5-7 days.
Wondered if it was time for nap. Realized it was only 9:00. Despaired.
Put in a load of laundry.
Vacuumed bedroom floor where it was covered in playground sand that I had brushed out of bed last night.
Decided to take MJ down to park to hasten the day along. She insisted on going on foot, fell while running down the sidewalk, and scraped her knee.
Spent an hour at the playground comforting my keening, wailing, and apparently mortally injured daughter while simultaneously plying her with snacks to keep her from spiraling into a more cataclysmic, jet-lag-enhanced super-meltdown.
Read “Ladybug Girl and Bingo” again. Tore at hair discreetly.
Put MJ down for nap.
Got in bed myself. Picked up history of the Crusades book. Realized I remembered none of what I had read yesterday. Decided it didn’t matter. Read five more pages. Will forget them as well.
Slept for one hour.
Woke up when MJ did. Read her “Ladybug Girl” book again. Even she couldn’t feign interest.
Got ready for MOMS Club board meeting. Printed agendas, prepared snacks, explained to MJ that we were going to go “hang with the ladies. At the park! Whoo!”
Tried to stay cool when she had a total psychotic breakdown. Tried to empathize. “I hear that you don’t want to go! That’s OK! You are frustrated! Naughty board meeting!” This did not work.
Realized MJ had never had lunch.
Gave her cold oatmeal and peanut butter pretzels in car while speeding to park.
Ran board meeting. Tried not to terrify incoming members with descriptions of gruelling, mundane, and largely thankless work they will be doing for the next twelve months. Failed.
Raced MJ home for late dinner. Made her — at her request — brown rice pasta with peas and cheese. She refused to eat any of it, suggesting instead that I should feed it to the dog.
Threatened no books at bedtime. Felt ashamed.
It worked. MJ ate four bites. Felt somewhat vindicated.
Realized there was no time for bath. Washed MJ’s hands, feet and legs in sink. Applied Bactroban to her knee. Comforted her when she acted as if I had attacked her with razors.
Read “Ladybug Girl” book again. Attempted to “keep it fresh.” Failed.
Put MJ down.
Picked up a million legos, a dozen tupperware play dough “plates,” several stuffed animals, and one fork from the living room floor. Unpacked MJ’s “New York bag,” which contained, among other things, her unicorn pajamas, an owl, and four plastic wine glasses. Huh.
Washed breakfast, lunch, and dinner dishes.
Swept miniscule and ubiquitous bits of pink play dough off of kitchen floor.
Folded load of laundry.
Wrote e-mail to moms who attended meeting. Thanked them. Bantered. Made clever jokes. Prayed this would keep the new board members from quitting before they’d started their terms.
Considered eating left over brown rice pasta. Decided I couldn’t bear it. Hoped Mike would cook dinner when he came home. Contemplated that I am a failure as a “housewife.” Decided this makes me a good “feminist.”