I tend to give into them...I KNOW these moments are fleeting, I know that one day soon they won't want my lap, or my snuggles, because I've seen this happen already with my oldest. I gave so much of her precious snuggle moments to my career, and I'm just so incredibly grateful not to have to do that with my other two.
But sometimes, Mommy needs to pee. And in yesterday's case, that resulted in a wild, red faced, screaming child throwing herself against the bathroom door.
It was just that kind of day.
In my head I'm seeing police officers pulling up to see exactly WHAT I'm doing to do these children that's causing them to scream in such agony. No one is going to believe a child is going to yell like that because mommy went to the can. Unless you've met my children.
Are they spoiled? It's pretty bloody likely.
So, after hours of this battle...at one point MissAngelLittleGirl looked at me and said, "mom, she just wants to love you," rather reproachfully I might add, large blue eyes disapproving and angry, when I tried to shoo her little sister off into some activity that didn't involve my breast. (Growth spurt! She's nursing EVERY SEVEN SECONDS.) Relief finally arrived, and that's not exactly when it gets better.
"Get me booze," I said. My husband is an understanding man. He took a look at the un-vacuumed, un-dusted, unorganized living room and rewarded me with a half a glass of Shiraz.
This sounds innocent enough, but for me, a half a glass of wine is roughly the equivalent of you drinking seven bottles. Three sips in, the middle one decides she wants a snack, and I decided, at ten thirty at night, that I was going to make soft pretzels from scratch while sipping vino.
I had dough already, so it seemed logical and easy enough to do.
Three sips of wine, I tell you. Three.
Forget that it's an hour and a half process. I decided I didn't want NORMAL soft pretzels, I wanted Aunt Annie's soft pretzels. So I decided I'd amend the proven recipe from Artisan Bread in Five, replacing the egg white with butter (what could be bad there, right?)
What resulted, was just BAD. It took till 11:30 till my kids got their snack, and they were the butt-ugliest pretzel STICKS you've ever seen. At some point rolling and twisting the dough was deemed too cumbersome and time consuming... I simply stretched the dough into logs, which blew up into cruller like proportions, and then I coated them in more butter and SALT. So. Freaking. Ugly.
I haven't mentioned the ten or so burns I've gotten on my hands from trying to adjust the pretzel-cruller-thingies on the pizza stone.
Three sips of wine. And the baby still following me around the house, whining, at 11:30 at night, carrying a misshapen, butter and salt coated bread log and gnawing on it like a dog with a bone.
Guess I'll try out that supermom thing again today. See where it gets me.