let me just give you a run-down of my morning.

I woke up at about seven thirty to something running around in my celing. Yes. In my ceiling. After the infamous flying squirrel incident, I sat up in bed, and tried to calm my racing heart. I was thinking, “Where’s the cat? Where’s the stupid cat when I need him?”. Listening to the sound, I came to the conclusion that it sounded way too big and loud to be a mouse. The next conclusion I drew was that I do not have rats. I simply DO NOT HAVE RATS. Oliver would not have stood for it. Also, the fast running back and forth in the ceiling of my bedroom didn’t sound very rat-like, at least not what I would imagine a rat sounding like. Whatever it was sounded like it was having a good time. Like it was playing. So, I concluded, it must be a squirrel. I thought I heard meowing outside, so I got up, got my glasses, and went to the back door. No cat. Okay, maybe the cat was in the ceiling. How did the cat get in the ceiling? I don’t know. How does anything get in the ceiling? I comforted myself with thoughts of Oliver sneaking into the ceiling, and attacking the invader, guns blazing claws unsheathed. Thus, saving the day, and my sanity. This is the way I lulled myself to sleep…five times. Being awakened every so often to more scampering and one occasion of a thump and some sort of animalistic noise that I told myself was Oliver beating the holy crap out of the stupid squirrel.

So, somehow, I stayed in bed until ten o’clock when my kids woke up and the noises had vanished, and I arose with a terrible, burning headache. After I was up for an hour or so, Oliver showed up at the back door, returning from a night of possibly deviant behaviour with his little friend, No-Tail. So much for my feline avenger!

After that morning, I’m sure you can understand that I had to take a couple hours for myself to re-coup my equilibrium by reading blogs and message boards, eating tuna and crakers, drinking Pepsi, cleaning poop from Elijah’s carpet, legs, feet, and shirt (don’t ask….and don’t you dare laugh), and ignoring my children and the state of my home. I mean…you couldn’t expect me to have come out of that rearing and ready to go, could you? I didn’t think so.

So, now my computer says that it is 12:00 on the dot. I’m a lazy, lazy bum, and I need help. Psychiatric help probably, but I would prefer the household type. And a Nanny. And a poop-cleaner, in whatever category that falls.

Until that arrives, I am going to take a shower, clothe my naked son, wipe his nose for the fiftieth time this morning, clean the kitchen, clean the living room, do the laundry, clean the kids’ rooms, clean my room, clean the bathrooms, cook dinner, and kiss my husband passionately when he walks through the door tonight in hopes that he will not divorce my lazy butt.

***Update….It is eight minutes till two. I have showered, dressed Elijah, wiped his nose six times, cleaned up the kitchen (minus sweeping and mopping), and cleaned up the living room. See…progress.

***Update #2…It is five till three, and Kyra and Elijah’s rooms are cleaned. Won’t someone please come and take my kids for me? They’re driving me nuts. Kyra is taking offense to me locking her out of her room, and telling me that it’s not nice of me to put all of Elijah’s toys in his closet (he can’t open doors yet) except for about five or six of them. If she only knew what plans I have in store for their toys…their millions and millions of toys…come yard sale season. That is, if I hold out that long, and don’t take them all to Goodwill first. Anyway, got off on a tangent there. If someone could please just take my kids, it would make the rest of my day of cleaning go much smoother. Please? Pretty please?