A day in the life. . .

The problem in trying to keep an upbeat blog about the adorable day-to-day things your kids do is that when you're in a crappy mood, it's hard to find anything fun to write. I could go on and on about things that irritate me, but really, who wants to spend their time reading a blog kept by an overwrought, emotional woman ranting about her day?

Well, you, apparently. You're still here.

Bless your heart.

So my day was something like this. (Keep in mind that all times are completely made-up. I don't wear a watch. I never know what the hell time it is. I use clocks mainly for decorative purposes. )

7 a.m., maybe 8 a.m., 9? Kids wake up, make lots of noise, come in and pounce on us. We get up to see it's snowing outside. It's May something-or-other and it's freakin' snowing! Did you hear me? Snowing! This day is not starting the way it should. Everyone who pities me for living here is right. This is miserable. Ugh. No! I refuse to let the weather get me down. I have a good life here. Repeat, I have a good life here. I HAVE a. . .life here, anyway. Besides, poor Nicky is depressed enough for the both of us. "Why won't the snow go away, Mommy? Why?" What can I say? I want him to be happy. Besides, it's a holiday today! Pinsedag -- whatever that means.

9:02 a.m. Seven announces that he's still going to work. He works, therefore ruins, every holiday. To be fair, the snow would have ruined any good weather plans we had anyway, but it's just more fun to blame things on my husband.

11:05 a.m. I need to fix some buttons on Nicky's outfit for May 17 (Norwegian Constitution Day). It's a beautiful traditional outfit, recently bought at a store for very modern prices. It's a little too big, so I need to take it in. Nicky tries it on, and I mark where I need to put the buttons with a light-colored marker. I know there are pens made for this kind of thing, but I don't have one.

11:18 a.m. I leave the room to grab a needle and some thread.

11:21 a.m. I come back to find that Laney has begun writing on the coffee table with the unattended marker. I take the marker away, admonishing myself for having left it unattended. Didn't I just write a post on this? Will I ever learn? Just...a...little...slow...on...the...uptake, aren't we?

11:31 a.m. I start fixing the buttons. I begin to think about all the women who have had to "take in" the clothes of their kids over the generations. It feels so. . .so motherly. I feel so motherly. You would think that, by now, these motherly moments would cease to surprise me. They don't. I'm often taken aback by the fact that, wow, I really am someone's mom. I sew buttons. I read bedtime stories. I tuck my kids in at night. Later, I come back to check that they're still under the covers and warm enough. I do all of these things gladly and without thinking, because I am a mother, their mother. I am in constant awe of these two small people, in a way that only their mother could be.

I keep sewing. Sometimes, I look at Nicky, and I can still see reminders of his sweet baby cheeks. In the very next moment, I think I glimpse the man he is going to become. Will he always be the same sensitive soul? Will he be a doctor? Or a dancer? I often watch Laney play and wonder about the upcoming adventures of her life. Will she travel? Will she fall in love? Will she be a dancer? Or a doctor? And sometimes when I watch either of them, I think, "So that was you, the one who was kicking me from the inside all those years ago." That's who the faint lines on the pregnancy test came to be. Nicky. Laney. My kids. I am amazed. Maybe I'll blog about that.

11:38 a.m. I'm still feeling warm and fuzzy inside. The kids want to watch a movie. I don't have the energy to get them dressed to go out. It's snowing in May, for crying out loud. We have the perfect excuse to be indoors. I can do motherly things, and they can cozy up with a film. I make some popcorn.

11:52 a.m. I need to iron the white shirts they'll be wearing for May 17.

12:07 p.m. I finish ironing and come in to find that Laney has scattered popcorn all over the living room floor. My motherly feelings begin to fade.

12:37 p.m. The dryer peeps. I go upstairs to take care of the laundry. Maybe I can even get something written down for the blog? Wait, I've got to vacuum up the popcorn first.

12:37 p.m. and 47 seconds I hear a loud crash and bang. Nicky's hysterical voice is calling, " I'm sorry, Mommy! I'm sorry!" I go downstairs to see him holding a picture that he has knocked off the wall. The frame is nicked from where it crashed into the floor. I finally get him to calm down long enough to tell me he was kicking a ball, which he knows he's not allowed to do, and it crashed into the frame, knocking it down. He is already hysterical and sorry. In a move that should secure my nomination for the Epitome of Patience Mother of the Year award, I gently give him a hug, simply say that accidents can happen and remind him not to kick the ball in the house anymore.

1 p.m. I still haven't vacuumed the floor. Concerned that Laney hasn't been drinking enough, because she struggles with constipation (and my insistence on talking about my kids' bowel issues continues), I pour them both a drink before I get started.

1 p.m. and 47 seconds Nicky spills his drink all over the table. It begins dripping all over the floor. My head wants to explode. My warm motherly feelings are gone, all gone. They are replaced by feelings of desperately wanting all this to be a bad dream. Instead of being a button-sewing, pop-corn cleaning, drink-mopping, laundry-washing, shirt-ironing, ass-wiping maid servant, I am going to wake up drunk on red wine next to a naked Johnny Depp my husband.

4:57 p.m. As I'm sitting typing away on the blog, Laney begins to cry, panicked. She's just had a potty accident. It's my fault. It had been awhile since her last bathroom visit, and I should have reminded her to go. Instead, I sat around typing on the computer.* I've set her up for failure. I have now secured my nomination for Piss-poor Mother of the Year.

5:35 p.m. Aunt Flo has made her monthly call, which explains the lightening-fast, Linda Blair-like mood swings and all-round pissy demeanor. (Or is that just the unfortunate effects of a bad personality?)

6:30 p.m. Pizza! We eat pizza, which Laney adorably calls pista. No cooking. Minimal dishes. Everything is better with pista. Life is good.

*I should note that my husband was hogging up the one toilet at the time. I have the right to remain defensive.