Hosting parties takes on a different meaning once you’ve got kids. While everyone else is calmly sleeping off their over-indulgence and enjoying a lazy Sunday morning in bed, this is what’s really happening back at our place. (Warning: you won’t be jealous.)
1:30 a.m. The last guest leaves after a great party on our back patio. Jason and I scurry around, picking up food remains and moving half-finished bottles of booze out of public view. Then we head inside, leaving the rest for later. We collapse into bed.
2:01 a.m. Baby stirs and I immediately become alert. He coughs, lets out a cry, pauses, and starts crying more. He doesn’t stop. I pretend it’s not happening.
2:05 a.m. Big brother wakes up and starts complaining: “Go to sleep. You’re bothering me.” Soon they’re both shouting, “Mama!” I drag my exhausted body out of bed.
2:10 a.m. A sip of water and a pat on the back consoles both of them. Silence returns and I fall asleep upon contact with the mattress.
2:30 a.m. The drunk parade starts outside our window. Some dude screams “F#@$!” I nearly jump out of my skin. It takes a while for my heart to stop pounding.
2:45 a.m. I’m probably asleep by then.
5:40 a.m. “Dada! My Dash is lost. The sheet isn’t covering my feet properly.” Dash is A.’s giraffe and god forbid he ever fall out of bed. I’ve gotten really good at recognizing obscure bits of Dash’s body with my fingertips while crawling around on all fours in pitch black darkness. Daddy retrieves Dash and A. settles once more.
7:15 a.m. “Can you please get up and make me some breakfast? I want yogurt and granola with strawberries.” I barely register this request, so A. gives up and leaves the room.
7:35 a.m. Oh, joy. He’s back again. “Please get up,” he begs. Then he uses his foolproof solution and wakes up his little brother who stands in his crib and wails until I come get him.
7:45 a.m. The boys are totally uninterested in a family cuddle in bed, a.k.a. an opportunity for Mom and Dad to snooze a bit longer. Jason wheedles a 45-minute extension out of me, to be repaid later, so I get up and take the kids downstairs.
8:30 a.m. Children are fed, I’m sipping my coffee gratefully, and Jason emerges, looking… well…. hung-over. I guess it was that Kraken Spiced Rum he was so excited about the night before. We confer about the day’s details: beach with kids, grocery shopping, and the floors need to be “de-fuzzed,” as he describes it eloquently.
8:45 a.m. A strange smell is emanating from the sunroom. My worst suspicions are confirmed. Baby has a leaky diaper. I yell for help. Jason removes the baby. It’s time to wash the floor, whether I like it or not, so I put down my coffee, pull out the cleaning supplies, and get to work.
We have a successful trip to the beach. No mishaps beyond handfuls of ingested sand mixed with honeydew melon.
12:20 p.m. Lunchtime, and the baby doesn’t like his pasta with garlic scape pesto. (Admittedly, it’s rather strong.) His solution is to fling the penne over his shoulder onto my freshly washed floor. His older brother’s hysterical laughing doesn’t help.
12:40 p.m. They’ve both been excused from the table after cleaning up their mess and begin fighting over a cup of grape juice, which inevitably spills over a different section of the freshly washed floor.
1:05 p.m. Naptime for all except Jason, who chooses to combat his exhaustion (or frustration?) with an intense WOD at the gym. Weirdo.
The afternoon goes much better, with only one tantrum in the grocery store, one at the dinner table, and one before bed. I’ve collapsed on the couch, barely able to focus on my book.
I don’t even remember what it’s like to sleep in…