I had an entire post scribbled about Mother’s Day. When writing about things that hit really close to home for yours truly, I like to have someone edit it to make sure the rambling nonsense is kept to a minimum. Naturally, that didn’t happen. For my mere post was tabled in lieu of guitar forums and Facebook.
I woke up to a nice shower of kisses from my darling Milkfaced boy. We had some quality time in the big bed where I answered a lot of “What’s that?” questions and sneaked in a random snuggle here and there. So far, pretty good.
Then comes chaos.
When you’re married to the least organized man in the universe, things can wear on your nerves pretty quickly. When you’re married to someone who travels for a living, all patience is tested by having to run a household by yourself. I don’t care for Mother’s Day, as a rule, but I certainly welcome one day out of the year where I can let down my guard, not have to think about what to plan for meals, not have to think about a day’s activities and not have to think about the laundry list of shit that never seems to get done.
Alas, my sans souci day lasted all of 2.5 hours. One iPod disappeared and the entire world had to come to a screeching halt. My ever constant coaching, my unending pleas for organization unanswered – I sneaked out to the deck while the house was being upended in pursuit of whatever has gone missing at this particular moment in time.
At the risk of sounding entirely frustrated and ungrateful, can a girl not catch a break? Particularly a working mom who has to go it alone more than she cares. Like many, I feel like I’m juggling way too many balls than I’m qualified to juggle. It wears one down very rapidly and doesn’t do much for the overall carriage and demeanor. Maybe if there was just one day a year that someone could recharge without interruptions, life would be a little more manageable.
As solutions normally lie at my feet, next year I vow to have everything organized and within arm’s reach. I will draw up a list of nifty ideas well in advance. Then I’m going to round up a few of my other mommy friends and run away for the weekend. Kids welcome. Husbands, not so much.
At 12 ‘o clock I was literally on my way out of the building when Jonas informed me that we’re supposed to be having a lunch meeting. Oh great. My favorite kind of meeting. The Big Boss (the one that everybody hates) had come down all the way from Stockholm and wanted to discuss last week’s interviews with the school inspection people. Okay. Sure. Fine. I guess we absolutely have to do this right fucking now.
I was having such a great day at work too. Some of my colleagues and students and myself had spent the morning painting one of the school walls with different motifs and quotations, and having a really good time doing it. This was one of the student counsel’s projects. They wanted to decorate the school and got permission to paint a few walls. We worked on it until lunch time and then I got ready to leave since I had worked my scheduled hours for the day.
I was pretty eager to get the hell out of there too, since it was past my normal lunch time of 11:30 and I didn’t have time to eat any breakfast this morning. When this happens it’s usually not a big problem because I can grab a piece of fruit or something from the conference room and then have an early lunch around 11 or 11:30. Not today, however.
With my stomach as hollow as the Grand Canyon, I sat down and proceeded to watch everyone else eat lunch for the next hour. We each had to tell the Big Boss precisely what the school inspectors had asked us and what responses we gave during our interviews. He had all the English teachers go first so I was done after about ten minutes. I then sat there for the remaining 50 minutes not able to concentrate on what anyone else way saying (in Swedish, naturally) because I felt like I was about to pass out from hunger.
Then they wanted to have an after-work session at 5 ‘o clock later on and they wanted me to go. I said that I was only scheduled to work from 8 to 12 so I was going home. Yeah, but after-work is not considered part of working hours, they said. Duh. No, I said. I’m not coming back for that. Then when they started to press me further, I informed them rather loudly and irritably, that I really needed to leave because I hadn’t eaten yet and I REALLY NEEDED to eat.
I then stormed out of the building and headed home. Of course I had just missed both of my normal short cut methods of transport (bus and ferry) so I had to take the bloody tram. It doubles the time it takes to get home. When I got to where I change trams at Brunnsparken, I bought myself two doughnuts and gobbled half of one down immediately.
When I got home I ate the rest of the doughnuts and cracked open a Bacardi Breezer, even though it was only two in the afternoon. I’m feeling okay now. Doughnuts and booze did the trick.