Updated: Aug. 20, 2015
Originally Published: July 25, 2015
It happened again tonight. I felt like an athlete nearing the finish line of a marathon—though I wouldn’t know what that feels like since my only experience is walking a 5K. Close enough, right?
So here I was: 6:45 p.m., the baby had just decided that the toilet was his new water table, while my preschooler was demanding a Play-Doh setup. As I tried to multitask, I heard my phone buzz with a text.
“No, no, no!”
Sure enough, it was him: “Sorry babe, I’m running late.”
Great.
Normally, I pride myself on being level-headed. I tackle daily tasks like shopping, cleaning, and managing tantrums with a smile (or at least I try). But there is only so much a person can handle after a long day. By 7 p.m., I’m officially done. That’s when my husband usually walks in, but when he’s late… well, let’s just say that’s when DEFCON 1 kicks in. Here’s what goes through my mind:
- This can’t be happening! Why is this happening? This is usually when some utterly outrageous disaster occurs—like the toddler deciding that paste is a gourmet snack, or my preschooler bringing me a dirty diaper, proudly exclaiming, “Look, Mommy!”
- How on earth will I cook dinner while keeping these little tornadoes entertained? They’re just as over me as I am with them! I’m not a terrible mom, but after 14 hours of non-stop chaos, I’m out of ideas and energy.
- How late is late? Is it 10 minutes? 15? Or an hour? If it’s an hour, I might just lock myself in the bathroom with the baby—after all, he finds toilets fascinating, and that gives me a little peace. The older kids will just have to fend for themselves!
- It’s been 12 hours since I had a real conversation with an adult. The last person I spoke to was the cashier who, bless him, didn’t understand a word I was saying. Still, he nodded along like a champ. Maybe I should check his schedule for tomorrow.
- I can handle this. I’ve already managed all day, so what’s a bit longer? I’m so lucky to have a partner to share this life with. Oh no, what if he leaves me? What if that’s why he’s running behind? Maybe he’s found someone younger and less frazzled—someone who doesn’t have unwashed hair and cuticles that could double as weapons. Ugh.
“Hey, sweetie, what’s for dinner?”
“Broiled Salmon, Eau de Toilette. The baby had a hand in it.”
“Really? Is he finally over his obsession with the toilet?”
“Not even close.”
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In summary, while waiting for my partner to arrive home, my mind races through a mix of chaos, exhaustion, and irrational fears, all while trying to make the best of a challenging situation.