Tag Archives: mommy time

Here I am again

4 Oct

Today I find myself at home during the almost middle of the day to wait for the TV repair guy.  To Hubby, this equates to the elusive “Mommy’s time alone” that I keep bitching talking about.  I say it does not, because being home in the almost middle of the day means that at any moment, an attorney could be looking for me.   And I stress about things like that.  Being home and “stressy” doesn’t equal happy, relaxing Mommy time.  At any moment, one of my bosses could be looking for something or need something, and my not being there could throw a big wrench in the works.  No, I’m not indispensible.  But they tend to get all knee-jerky and say things like, “If you’re going to have an unforseeable TV catastrophe (and your husband cannot be there even though he’s the one who scheduled the damn thing) then you need to give me advance notice!  And have someone cover for you!  And read my mind so you can figure out what I need before I do!”   In reality, I’ll probably get back to the office and no one will have even noticed I’m gone.   There is always the possiblity, though, that I’ll get the knee-jerk instead.  Especially since we’re getting ready for trial.  Technically, litigation attorneys are ALWAYS getting ready for trial but every legal staff member knows that trial prep really doesn’t start in earnest until about 4 weeks before the trial date.    But “trial prep mode” will have to be another post.  And oh, what a fun post it will be.

Anyway, this morning was also another one of those mornings where being a mom of a 3 year old and being employed full time didn’t mix very well.  I am not a morning person.  Never have been, never will be.  So getting up bright and early and making it into the office before 8:30 has never been a frequent accomplishment of mine.  (Except on trial days, but I can thank adrenaline for that.)  This morning I bartered with the alarm clock for another few minutes (once…or twice) and went about my AM routine.  Mr. T was not in his obstinate, I’m-going-to-do-the-opposite-of-what-you-want-me-to-do-because-I’m-three , mode so we actually had a chance at getting out of the house at a decent time.  Now, I haven’t mentioned it much but we’re still in the throes of potty training.  And it’s not going very well.   T has just decided that he isn’t interested.  Yep, he agrees that all the “big boys” at school go pee pee on the potty, but not him.  He’s perfectly happy in his Pull-ups, thank you very much. 

So, we’re ready to head out the door and I’m all, “Yay, I might actually make it in by 8:30”.  I check T’s Pull-up and he’s still dry, so I offer the potty.  Nope, he doesn’t have to go.  Super, let’s roll.  We get out the door and three-quarters of the way to the car when T looks at me with this horrified look on this face and says, “Mommy!!!  I’m peeing!!!!”  Now, this shouldn’t be some big revelation.  He’s been peeing in his Pull-Ups or a diaper all his life.  It wasn’t leaking and running down his leg or anything.  Just ordinary urination.  I told him we’d change his Pull-up when we get to school.  Nope, that’s not going to work.  That would be too easy.  He gets all whiny and puts on his scruntched up, not happy face, “Nooooo, please I want you to change me now?!!”  (Insert really, really whiny, pathetic voice.)  He rarely asks to be changed but NOW it’s just too unbearable to go on.  For the love of God, I was “this close” to getting out of the driveway at a decent time.   So on one hand, I’m happy that he’s acknowledging this and wants to change.  On the other hand, I JUST WANT TO GET IN THE CAR!   My mommy side wound up winning out over my professional side (of course), and we went back inside.   T then insisted he still had to sit on the potty, so he sat.  And did nothing.  And then said, “Please I want a race car?”.  Nope, sorry, it doesn’t work that way.   But you have to admire him for trying.  *sigh*

The TV guy is done so I should go back to work.  This kinda did work out to be not so bad Mommy Alone Time.  And I got to eat some of the carrot cake in the fridge.  So, not so bad.  Just don’t tell Hubby, okay?  I don’t want him to think I actually enjoyed this.

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