I've started this post 17 times. And even as I type, I hear a baby calling me but I'm determined to write something before I go check (hey, I'm not running for Mother of the Year anyway).
"So, how's it going?" you ask. They're...going. We're all coping. We're all still breathing - albeit with perpetually stuffy noses - but we're getting by. I wouldn't say we're doing any of this particularly well, but we're doing it. We're getting up every morning and getting ourselves out the door. The girls go to "school." I go to work. I pick them up, go home, and then attempt to play with two cranky and overtired babies for an hour while Roger washes bottles and prepares new ones and cleans up whatever mess the dogs have made that day. Around 7, we bathe the girls and put them to bed by 8. Then we scrape something together for ourselves for dinner - sometimes Roger cooks, but honestly, we ate pizza 3 times last week. (Dominos keeps delivering our pizza late, then proceeds to send us a free pizza coupon as an apology.) So we're doing it, but I'd be lying if I said it was going great. It's exhausting. And by Friday, I feel like I've been run over by a train.
Apparently, I look like I've been hit by a train too. Last Friday, one of the directors at the daycare says to me "You're so clever for dropping the girls off before you get ready for work."
"I am ready for work, b*tch," is what I wanted to say, but I can hardly balme her.
Okay, now two babies are calling me. I'm hitting publish without proof reading.
Sue me.
