Week 7. I’m turning into a pair of sweatpants.
I’ve been getting dressed. Not always sweatpants, often leggings. NEVER jeans. Usually a bra. I’m still leaking milk. If it weren’t for that, it would be no bra.
The rest of my family may also be turning into lounge wear.
On average I do the laundry once a week. RB gets a pass. Her clothing is labeled “sleep ‘n play.”
I’ve seen Captain in jeans. I haven’t washed any, so maybe they’ve been worn twice?
And now BB. As I sorted her laundry, it became clear the parenting around here is really slipping.
For all of last week, there was one pair of pants. No dresses. There were several pairs of jammies, but not enough to make up for the missing pants and 3 pairs of underwear. Three pairs of underwear for the entire week.
I’m not sure what happened. But every week is a fresh start. And we’re doing about the same this week. Maybe upping the underwear count.
We have never had more family time. And if I thought I was irritable. BB is fed up.
The other day the bathroom hand towel was on the floor where BB usually leaves it. I step over it on my way to the toilet.
Week three I stopped and hung it back up. Week five I tried to stop caring. Week seven I really don’t care.
I’m sitting on the toilet, being as quiet as possible, hoping no one will find me. BB shouts,
“Can you hang that back up?”
I say nothing. She storms in,
“Fine. If you’re not going to do it, I’ll do it myself.”
And she really does hang the hand towel back up, so that’s nice.
RB starts fussing. BB exclaims,
“Hold your horses, I’ll tend to you in a minute.”
I mention her pre-school zoom meeting is about to start. BB plops in her chair,
“I’m going to tell them to make this quick.”
We’re here. We’re holding our horses. And occasionally changing our underwear.