Rick has been working the morning anchor shift lately which means he’s out the door at 4 am, leaving me to wake up with the girls. Frankly, I don’t see why he can’t anchor the morning news AND get up with the kids. He maintains it’s technically impossible but I think he may not be trying hard enough.
So every morning around 6:30 am, I can suddenly can feel someone staring at me. I open my eyes and in front of me are two blue eyes (which Dylan insists are green – don’t even bother trying to correct her), just a couple inches from my face. Her supposedly-green-but-actually-blue-eyes are intently focused on me. I can feel her breath on my face. I’m not big on breath in my face. Is anyone really?
“I have to go poop,” Dylan says.
“Ok, go ahead. You can do it yourself honey,” I offer. I’ve never actually sold her on this brilliant idea of mine but I remain forever optimistic.
“I want you to get me started,” Dylan counters.
So I drag myself out of bed, put the bathroom light on and hoist her up onto the Elmo toilet seat.
There. She’s started. I climb back into bed and just as I am about to drift into that sweet, heavenly, magical, beautiful….
“I’m ready to be wiped!”
I wrap up the wiping as Summer wakes up. A few minutes later, I sit the girls down for breakfast. Dylan wants cereal but there is a slight stipulation.
She wants one bowl for the milk.
Another bowl for the cereal.
And a third bowl for sliced bananas.
So I say, “Dylan. Don’t be crazy. You’ll have one bowl with cereal, bananas and milk. I’m not washing THREE bowls. No one needs three bowls to eat cereal!”
Oh wait. That’s not right.
Actually I say, “Ok.”
So. Much. Easier.
The cool thing about Rick heading off to working so early is that he’s home for that always glamorous dinner-bath-books-bed routine. So last night I slipped out and headed to SoHo for an Italian cooking lesson and incredible meal sponsored by Select Italy and organized by the awesome Traveling Mom.
I got to hang with two super adorable Italian chefs… Andrea and Francesco.
They were so funny and talented and just so darn Italian, that I couldn’t help but hug one of them.
That Francesco is just a peach. Would it kill him to put his arm around me?
But it wasn’t all about fun here. No. No. No. I worked my American arse off. Here I am preparing a Grana Padano cheese basket for my baby greens and roasted quail. And you thought I only did Amy’s Organic Mac and Cheese.
By the time I got home, the kids were fed, clean, polished and tucked into their beds like dreamy angels.
But there will be payback.
Rick’s taking me to his cult camp reunion this weekend in Philadelphia. I’m told 600 people will be there. Seriously. 600 people I don’t know. Wish me luck mamas.
mama bird notes:
Ever thought about plastic surgery? It’s crossed my mind. Read my piece, Don’t Judge the Mommy Makeover on New York City Moms Blog.
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