Blame It On the Rain

Rainy days are sometimes the best ones to be a stay-at-home mom, especially if SK doesn’t have preschool that day, and we don’t really have any pressing errands to run, and we can, seriously, just stay inside all day, because as you know we don’t have a garage, and as you also know there ain’ t no way in heck I’m dragging children out in the pouring rain if I don’t have to do so. The poor dog will have to take himself out today, probably, too.

So whee! A free day! I baked bread, and got cookie ingredients together to bake in the afternoon because Saoirse has been bugging me and bugging me to “can we make cookies today, Mom? Pleeeease? How about now? What about now?” and I should finally cave in before she starts standing on the rooftop, hollering at the top of her lungs, demanding homemade dessert products THIS VERY INSTANT.

Except.

Quinn and Saoirse can only play well together for the first half hour. After that, Quinn’s pulling hair, Saoirse’s screaming that “Quinn took my favorite toy! AGAAAAAAIIIINN!!” and I’m playing catcher for the projectile objects flying out of the playroom.

Except.

I decide to make two different types of bread, in addition to those cookies, completely forgoing the fact that I need to have my kitchen something close to spotless for all of those house showings that aren’t rolling in. (Yeah, I said “aren’t.” I know it’s only been a few days. But still. I can’t keep up this momentum of cleanliness up much longer. This is the first time in 12 years I haven’t been behind on laundry, and it’s making me uncomfortable, like that vague itchy feeling you get right before you break out into hives and your throat closes up. )

Except.

Quinn is sick and went down for an early nap, then woke up barfing. She is presently curled into my lap, sucking her thumb, watching the words I type appear on the screen. It may be a long afternoon.

Except.

I have to pay the bills, and cut the coupons, and return those emails, and revise that novel (long story, for another time. Just know that my heart is in my throat, my brain is actually weeping from the task in front of it, and I randomly break out into the shakes whenever I look at the ream of printed paper sitting on our desk). I need to shower, and figure out what we’re having for dinner, because David’s going to be home late and on those nights having the least amount of prep/dishes to do is best while I’m juggling the evening meltdowns (the girls’, not mine. They don’t have wine).  I have to make those phone calls, and clean out that drawer, and vacuum the carpet for the 40th time this week.

It’s so mundane, isn’t it all? On rainy days when I was teaching, before we had children, I’d look out the window of my classroom sometimes to see the mountains all covered with mist, the school parking lot sodden, the sky like one of my artistic students had taken one of her charcoals to it, then smudged it beyond recognition. I’d think that it would just be so awesome to be able to be home, in front of a big window, curled up on the couch, reading a book with a cup of coffee in hand. But I was working, so I couldn’t. And life hasn’t really changed all that much. Because it’s raining, and I’m still not on the couch, mainly because I’m too busy vacuuming the cat hair off of it.

But, boy, though, it’s nice to look outside, from whatever building in which you’re standing, to look out at the rain. Because no matter what, you’re inside, and you’re dry, and there’s always a coffee pot somewhere with a little bit left from this morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, a toy car just came flying my way. Off to work I go.

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