Supersize

When did everything in my life become supersized? I spend more time at Costco than ever, where I purchase nearly everything necessary to run my home in institutional sized packages. Yet, somehow, I seem to run out of the same stuff in the same amounts of time, which means I'm also spending supersize. My stress is supersize. With two kids recently diagnosed with ADD/ADHD, and one having behavioral issues at school and at home, I could easily resort to a liquid diet. And I'm not talking about Slim-Fast. Add to that a husband who is rarely home, and when he is, he's working on his 1970 Karmann Ghia (that old German girl is more high maintenance than any lady you've ever met), or watching every episode of Top Gear ever recorded. It's spring, and the Christmas lights are still up. The laundry room has remained unfinished since my older daughter was three. There were no other children then...now there are four. That was NINE years ago. The windows are unfinished from two years ago. Several rooms need to be painted (including the two supersized messes-Cameron's and the boys' room), the porch needs to be stained. The siding needs to be replaced, but that is a supersized battle. My husband wants to use some old siding (he swears it will match) that he found in his grandmother's garage to cover the section that's been lacking for nine years. I want new siding. Yes, it's a considerable expense, but one that would make a phenomenal difference for our house. I'd say a supersized difference, but I'm getting tired of that word. You get the picture. I need to somehow simplify, get stuff done, and relax. How does life fly by so fast?

If

If you go around grumbling in your head about your husband, you'll probably be hanging up his coat (for the thousandth time) and cussing him when one of those big wooden hangers flies off the rod and smacks you in the nose. You might think God is trying to tell you something...or that the karma kicked in. You might then go to get the baby, and decide to change her. Then you put her down for a few minutes, and wrangle the three-year-old into bed. You might immediately have to threaten him to get BACK into the bed. Then you might get the baby again, and realize that she's peed through the new outfit and onesie you've put on her. You might commence to mentally grumbling again. You might change her with your icy cold hands, and the three-year-old will complain that she's keeping him awake (as if he's had any thoughts of sleep at all). He'll ask to poop for the third time in ten minutes. You'll then know that he really HAS mastered bowel and bladder control, because he's only letting out enough to last him a few minutes, thereby increasing his out-of-bed time. Then your older children might come in off the bus, making as much noise as their little bodies can produce. You might threaten them, too, and your mind might wander back to your guilty husband, sitting ALONE in his QUIET office. You'll probably start cussing him again, and the fact that he refuses to use birth control. You might curse the fact that you're nearly 35 and therefore it's probably not a good idea to use hormonal birth control anymore. And the IUD already failed...and condoms are, well, you know...and now the baby's worked herself up to a frenzy, so you'll probably have to go ahead and nurse her. You might park yourself near your laptop, so you can at least surf or update your Facebook status with one hand. The baby might behave herself and burp right away, and not even spit up on you, so you might sit there and snuggle her a while longer, ignoring all the Christmas stuff that still needs to be put away, and the third and fourth loads of laundry. Sooner or later, you might realize that the baby kind of smells like poop. Then you might realize that the smell is a little larger-than-life, if you will. You might look down and see that the baby has indeed pooped out of her onesie, and onto the second outfit you were holding in your hand, ready to put on her. Now you'll realize that there'll probably be a FIFTH load of laundry, and you'll drift back to your husband, who could easily wash clothes while playing his Xbox. While you're walking to your bedroom, you might hear a splat on the floor, and you'll note that she has indeed spit up...half on you, half on the floor. You might put the baby on your bed, on a waterproof pad so that she can do no more harm, and go get the infant bath tub ready. You might look down and notice that the baby has pooped all over your only clean pair of jeans. Your nine-year-old might dramatically burst into the bathroom and announce that the baby has peed...BESIDE the waterproof pad (who said only boys had that capability?), and all over your bed. Yes, it is Sheets Change Day. Yes, there'll be a fifth, and probably a sixth load of laundry. And you'll start mentally grumbling about your BGE and water bills. You'd then put the baby in the bath, noting that she does like being submerged in the water better than being in that bath-chair-thingy. But only for 90 seconds. You'd probably then hurry to dress the baby, who is screaming her fool head off. You see any hopes of a nap for the three-year-old slowly sailing away.

Then you might pick up your clean, sweet baby, nicely wrapped and smelling like Burt's Bees Milk Bath. You might snuggle her and decide all is right with the world. And decide maybe your attitude needs rebooting. But your husband will probably still be wrong.