Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off to Work I Go

It's January, and I've decided to embrace this time of transformation and hope.  It's the beginning of a new year; anything is possible.  I'm going to sift through the rubble of the holidays and somehow find a home for the ridiculous amount of toys that my children accumulated over the past month.  I'm going to tackle the mountain of laundry that piled up over the past two weeks, and I'm going to dig to the bottom of my dish laden sink and locate the drain.  Hey, at this point, I'm even delusional enough to believe that I can do something about the five pounds that I packed on over the holidays. 

Just to add to the insane list of projects that I'm undertaking, I've decided to return to work on a part-time basis after being a stay-at-home mom for a frighteningly long period of time.  You're probably wondering if I'm nervous?  Hell yeah I am, but it has nothing to do with actually working.  What scares me is knowing that somehow I'm going to have to roll out of this house in the morning looking somewhat put together.  I have no idea how I'm going to pull that off.  Mornings in our house are completely chaotic.

Every morning, the Smokin' Pirate slithers down the stairs and attaches himself to the computer so he can get a dose of the cartoon network before I notice him.  At some point, after I've asked him four or five times to turn off the computer, he usually disappears (which means he's located his DS and is frantically trying to defeat some type of invading army before I hunt him down and make him get dressed).  After thoroughly saturating his brain in electronic media, he eventually slinks into the kitchen and I peg a piece of toast at him.  In the last two minutes before we leave the house, the Pirate somehow manages to consume most of the toast, throw on his uniform, and at least pretend to have brushed his teeth.  (Seriously, at his last dentist appointment, I was waiting for the dentist to admonish him for his yellow teeth and slovenly habits.  But no, the man not only gives the Pirate a clean bill of health, but actually commends him on his excellent brushing skills.  I literally said under my breath:  "You've got to be kidding me, right?")  The Pirate's morning culminates in a mad dash to the car when he finally hunkers down in the back seat, clutching his DS, and prepares for the trip to school.  He's usually forgotten his socks, his shoes, his jacket, and about three other things.  In frustration, I pull halfway down the driveway as he hustles back inside and grabs his missing belongings.  Please don't think that I'm suggesting that we always show up with everything at school.  Oh no, there have been times when he's shown up without shoes in the middle of the winter and I've had to lug my 70 pound child into school to retrieve an extra pair.

While I'm battling the Pirate, my little Princess will eventually emerge from her royal chamber and demand some cereal with milk.  But not too much milk.  And she would definitely prefer pancakes.  And why can't we have pancakes?  Clearly I don't love her.  I must love her brother more.  He gets toast.  He gets to watch whatever he wants on the computer.  Oh, the drama!  As soon as I actually address the Princess and tell her that she should be thankful for what she has, she plays the guilt card like a shark from Vegas.  "Fine, Mom, if you don't have time to play with me or make my breakfast, I'll just do it myself.  I'll give up violin and all of my other activities, if that is what you want."  (Yeah, that would be nice, but my sense of maternal obligation would never let that happen.)  Like her brother, the Princess can sniff parental weakness a mile away and knows exactly how to make me feel inadequate.  Even though I know I shouldn't give in to her manipulation, I'll eventually promise pancakes on Saturday and pour her a bowl of cereal.  While the Princess isn't addicted to television or video games like her brother, she has the same sense of loathing for mundane tasks like brushing teeth, getting dressed, and fixing her hair.  You see, the royal scalp does not like to be touched by others, and combs, unless they are wielded with the lightest of touch, will simply be too rough and unacceptable for the royal tresses.  The Princess usually insists on lightly waving a brush over her head by herself and inevitably leaves the house with a royal rat's nest deeply embedded in her hair.

So, the question is . . . how am I going to find the time to primp and preen with all of this surrounding chaos?  I'm not sure, but I'm thinking about asking the Princess if she can hook me up with her fairy godmother (or at least a magic wand).