Square One

I start off weekends with a lot of hopes and dreams.

For example:

I will finally get the girls’ fall clothes/next size clothes out and into their drawers.
I will put summer clothes away.
I will cull clothes for handing down and donating.
I will get the kitchen wall organized for the girls’ school calendars, including hooks for their backpacks.
I will decorate for fall/Halloween.

And so on.

By Sunday evening, I am utterly dispirited. Laundry has gotten done, and often I have managed to grocery shop, but other than that, I am no further ahead. Disorder reigns.

This weekend, I managed to cook a couple of meals, enough for meals through the week even (minestrone soup and veggie chili).

The upstairs is still a mess: no clothes have been sorted, culled, stored, or brought out of storage. Plus, the bathroom needs to be cleaned, as per usual. And sheets need to be changed, of course. We’re about a week behind on that. (I know: Ew.)

The paperwork that was on the kitchen table has simply been relocated. The kitchen floor has not been mopped. (I did manage to sweep.)

The only fall decorations are the “leaves” that Flora cut out of colored paper and taped on the window. There are four of them.

Kate was in rare form this weekend. She joined me in bed three early mornings in a row (usually between 2 and 5 a.m., and she kicked the crap out of my kidneys). She was HYPED UP. The girl could not sit still or keep her hands (or body) to herself. And she capped it off by pooping in her pants Sunday afternoon.

Dan and I did not get any time to ourselves together.

This Sunday, I added to the fun by having yet another meltdown, this time at my in-laws house, and pretty much over the fact that no one (in my family) listens to me. Not my 5-year-old, and certainly not my 3-year-old, and even sometimes my 41-year-old, who hears me, but sometimes decides he’s going to do whatever it is “later”.

I found myself on my couch, crying, and wishing for one day, one 24-hour period, to be by myself. (I think this is the root of my problem lately. That and being 30 weeks pregnant and hormonal and tired.)

And, that, ladies and gents, is really what I want. I want Dan to take the kids for a day, and leave me at home by myself. I know that 24-hours is probably too long to hope for, but 8 hours? Four hours? That seems reasonable (to me). (Note, for the benefit of my husband: he worked seven days this week, including two marathon billing sessions. And had a friend in visiting from Seattle. Which means I was POD for most of the weekend, but money will be coming in from his private practice. And it’s always good to see J.)

I have also reconciled myself to the fact that I am always going to be tired because I am not getting enough sleep. My days of “enough sleep” are over. Done. Kaput.

I know, it took me a whole five years to figure this out. I’m brilliant.

Also, I’m so tired, that I don’t remember if I came to this conclusion last night (folding laundry and discovering that our DVD player bit the dust — right in the middle of our Season 1 True Blood viewing); this morning at 5:14 a.m. (when Kate came to my bed); or this morning around 6:30 a.m. in the shower.

Which basically means that even with four or eight (or, dream on, 24) hours wholly to myself, I would probably still not get anything done. Because I would be asleep.