Awkward Mom vs. Nap Blogging

Once again, Awkward Mom has overestimated how much you really want to know about her...

So, there are 2 ways I blog. One is night blogging, which can also be called: Awkward-Dad-on-call, freedom-fueled, one-eye-open, one-ear-cocked-towards-the-nursery, Pandora-blaring-something-not-child-appropriate, keeping-all-the-candy-for-myself blogging. This blog style usually results in more-rambling-then-usual blog posts that I edit to death the next day, while marvelling that marvelling is really spelled with 2 Ls. This blog style is currently on hiatus due to some ridiculously late bedtimes around these parts and Awkward Dad's insistence that we actually spend time together when the children finally do fall asleep. (I am not a huge fan of "spending time together," when his definition appears to be "watching" a movie on the couch and indignantly protesting that he isn't sleeping when woken up , but we all make sacrifices for our marriages, eh?)

The other way I blog is nap blogging; which can also be called: set the timer and write like crazy for 10 minutes, then set the timer and run around doing all the stuff that needs doing around here for 10 minutes. Wanna be all meta and see what I mean?

OK, so in the last 10 minutes I change Super Baby's diaper, put her on the floor, change Super Toddler's diaper, put his pants back on with both legs in one pants leg, fix that and get kicked for my trouble, put him in the crib, trip over Super Baby who is somehow half under the crib, pick her up, ignore the air-raid siren coming from the crib, walk to the door, get hit in the back of the head with a Cookie Monster, make a mental note to explore early admission to Little League for Super Toddler, close the door and trip over Super Preschooler who is inexplicably playing in the hallway, tell him to move, tell him not to go into the nursery, have pointless argument with him about why he can't go in there, let him go into there to get some toys quickly, remind him repeatedly what quickly means, get heart broken when Super Toddler smiles and asks to get out of the crib, hurry Super P. along by setting down Super Baby and carrying 14 dinosaurs into the living room, set them up on the coffee table, turn on Dinosaur Train, and breathe a sigh of relief. Then, go racing into the nursery and rescue Super Baby, who is now half under Super P.'s bed. Get heart broken yet again by Super Toddler's entreaties to get out of the crib. Close door and make mental promise to not open it again until the screaming ebbs or the neighbors call to complain. Set Super Baby in the swing and actually remember to buckle her in. Congratulate self. Carry laundry downstairs to realize that I forgot the detergent. Run back upstairs to get it. Get Super P. a drink, check on Super Baby, stare into space, remember the laundry, and run downstairs to start the wash. Come back upstairs to a shrieking timer. Write this paragraph and spell check it. Only 2 misspellings; congratulate self.

Alright, in these 10 minutes I checked on a sleeping Super Baby, a sleeping Super Toddler, and a Dinosaur-Train-entranced Super Preschooler. Nap-time trifecta! (Side note: How clever is the combination of dinosaurs and trains?! All they need to do is add Princesses and they would have the Toddler Trinity covered.) I strip the bed, slip on the pillows and fall over, while down there I decide that I really should clean up that cat vomit under the bed that has been there so long that it has completely hardened, get up to get a paper towel, get sidetracked and unload the dishwasher, watch Super Baby have a particularly active dream and get concerned that it might wake her. It doesn't, so I return to the bedroom to Fabreeze the bed, which I spray at exactly the moment a nice gust of wind blows in the window, go to the bathroom to wash Fabreeze out of my mouth, notice that the sink is very dirty, go to look for cleaner and start organizing the closet instead. Only stop when the timer goes off. Come in to type this and am interrupted twice by Super Preschooler: once to start another Dinosaur Train and once to kiss a stuffed frog that apparently isn't a prince. 6 misspellings; I suppose Fabreeze doesn't count and apparently trifecta isn't a real word.

For the next 10 minutes, I decide to check my email and really reply this time. I get distracted by an article about the 10 most famous unsolved crimes, which leads to other articles about the following: Jack the Ripper, D.B. Cooper, and a bank heist in Japan. Freak out when the timer goes off and curse because now I have to type that I just spent 10 minutes dorking around. No misspellings but Blooger wants to change dorking to forking. Forking? Is that a thing?

For the next 10 minutes, I run downstairs to put the clothes in the dryer and the sheets in the washer, forget a dryer sheet, run upstairs to get it, change the Netflix to Angelina Ballerina for Super Preschooler, get drawn into a conversation about how yes, boys can be dancers too but they aren't called ballerinas, have no good answer for why this is, sit there and think about it for awhile, Google it, and find this answer:

"In English speaking countries, most male ballet dancers are called ballet dancers. Most female ballet dancers are called ballet dancers. Only ONE top dancer in a company is called a ballerina. The male counterpart for this is Danseur Noble. Ballerino is the masculine form of the word ballerina which is Italian, but nobody outside of Italy uses that. Sometimes just plain "Danseur" is used for a male ballet dancer. Often they are referred to by their position in the company such as Soloist, Corps de ballet or Principal. In France they are called Etolie (male or female.) A "Cavalier" is any level dancer who is fortunate enough to partner a ballerina. He is the "ballerina's cavalier". He is not called this dancing on his own, or dancing with another female dancer in the company no matter what his rank in the company is. "

Try to explain this to Super Preschooler, who informs me that I am bothering him while he is watching his show. Finally remember to take the dryer sheet downstairs when the timer goes off. Switch the laundry and note (like I do every single time I do it) that taking wet clothes out of the washer is my least favorite part of doing laundry. Run back upstairs and tell you all about it while making 6 spelling mistakes, 4 of which are French. Classy me.

For the next 10 minutes I realize that Super Baby is awake, put her in her Bumbo (thank you Awesome Family!), give her some teething rings, and finish emptying the dishwasher. Then, I pack a box. (Did I tell you guys we are moving in 3 weeks? No? Oh. Well, we are moving in 3 weeks! More on that later, but a quick shout-out to Wonderful Mom for the loan of the boxes!) I decide to balance my checkbook and I do, but then I decide that I need to know who played the blind lady on Early Edition so I scoot on over to imbd.com. Get distracted and watch movie trailers until the timer goes off. (Shanesia Davis-Williams, by the way.)

For the next 10 minutes, I freak out that I haven't planned any dinner. Awkward Dad is on the 12 hour shift and won't be here, so I decide that hot dogs and strawberries sound just fine. Pack another box. Fight the urge, that rises every time we move, to start purging everything we own just so I don't have to move it. Lose the fight and purge some stuff anyway. Hide it in the car so Awkward Dad won't see it. (Don't tell him!) Fetch Super Baby's teething rings from half-way across the room and free her from the Bumbo. Go change her diaper and realize that Super Toddler is awake. Set Super Baby on the floor and get Super Toddler out of the crib. Change his diaper and trip over Super Baby, who is now half-way under the diaper-change table. Take both of them to the living room, turn off the TV, set up dinner, and rush in here to tell you about it and that I gotta go! Apparently Bumbo is not a recognized word....

Well, it is slightly more exciting that watching paint dry....slightly....catch ya later, Readers! Yes, it is true; moving posts are coming!

Have a great night!