To force myself to turn on the computer and post something when I finally got home last night would have been nothing short of an act of self-loathing, and I'm trying to mostly avoid those. Even so, my few short hours of sleep were painful. Physically painful. I painted a friend's room last night, wearing too-tight old jeans that are the only thing I don't care about getting paint on. And there was stuff in the room. In the small, crowded room. Where I was supposed to expertly wield brushes and rollers and an unruly drop-cloth and a chair to sometimes stand on. And all of that only after moving quite a few large and small items out of the room. My body is mad at me. My shoulder blades are stuck. My left SI joint thinks that it belongs to an octogenarian. I have painter's elbow. The arch in my left foot feels all delicate and needy.
But! I'm not actually complaining. It was fun, and the morning-after woes are just messages, little reminders that my body needs more practice at muscle-usage. I really should indulge my poor, neglected muscles and tendons and joints more often.
So I hobbled (I mean I literally hobbled) into work this morning, and my day progressed like a Ben Stiller movie, only less dumb and with more kids. It reminded me of a Baby Blues comic strip I saw years ago. It was so totally on the mark that it stuck with me forever. Basically, you have a full-time mom with a baby and a toddler and she's been home all day with the kids and dad comes home from work and their conversation goes approximately like this:
Dad: Hi, honey! What did you do today?
Mom: Well, I did two loads of laundry, played five rounds of hide and seek, ran the dishwasher, changed two poopy diapers, supervised a finger-painting project, and bathed the kids...
Dad: I don't know how you do it!
Mom: ...and then it was time to make breakfast.
Ha! It's ridiculous, and so very real. And now I really must go to bed, because tomorrow is looking just as harried as ever. And I'm going to love it, by gum.
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