A couple of years ago, Leif went off to hang out with some guy friends to sit around a bon fire and smoke cigars, drink brandy, and talk about manly things like power tools and video games. My husband picked up a friend on the way, who happens to be married to one of my friends, so she and I had a marathon phone chat date once our respective kids were in bed or otherwise out of our hair.

Eventually, the boys texted to say they were on the way home, and my friend and I got off the phone. It took Leif way longer to get home than it should have. I was still trying to decide whether to be mad or worried at him taking so long, and mulling over that decision with (another) glass of wine when he finally walked in the door.

“What took you so long??”

“I got pulled over.”

Horrified, I gasped, “Did you get a DUI?”

“Yes, Honey. Then they let me get back in the car and drive home.”

Oh. Total blonde moment.

Anyway, we were headed home from wine tasting drinking with friends yesterday when traffic came to a standstill two blocks from our house. We had been driving for 45 minutes, I was not the least bit sober, and Thing 2 had been crying most of the way, because apparently that’s what she does now. Leif had had some wine earlier, but he was my designated driver, so he was careful to stay within his limits.

A block away from our house, the police had set up a sobriety checkpoint.

Since I’m me, I immediately notified Twitter of the atrocity, and then told Thing 1 to keep her lips absolutely zipped, and if she said one word out loud, I’d send her new bike back to the North Pole. I could just imagine, “But Daddy, you did drink wine!” and I had no desire to explain to Mr. Just-Doing-His-Unconstitutional-Job-Policeman that that had been hours ago.

She just nodded. Even Thing 2 stopped crying. It must have been a really good mom look.

We finally pulled up for our turn. Leif rolled his window down.

“Evenin’, Sir,” said the officer.

“Evenin’,” responded my sober husband. I kept my mouth shut, because if I opened it, I probably would’ve gone off on the fourth amendment and unreasonable searches and seizures.

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

Two heartbeats later, Leif answered, “Yes.”

Gah.

The officer peered into my husband’s drained face, saw eyes glassy from listening to a three-year-old scream for 45 minutes straight, and I swear he was about to ask him to get out of the car and take a sobriety test, which of course he would’ve passed, but we all just really wanted to get home at that point.

I did the only thing I could do. I snorted. “I’d hardly call one glass of wine four hours ago drinking, Honey. Officer, if I were driving, you’d totally have to arrest me, but my husband is my designated driver tonight.”

The dude looked at me, and then suspiciously back to Leif. Thing 2, bless her heart, chose that minute to start screaming again. The officer looked in the back seat at the children, one of which had obviously been crying for some time, then back to us.

“Get your family home safely and have a good night.”

30 seconds later, we pulled in the driveway, threw the girls into bed, turned on How I Met Your Mother, and banished Leif’s sobriety with some more wine.

Bah humbug to illegal DUI checkpoints.

So every few weeks, I get into this strange mood where absolutely everything and anything bugs the crud out of me, and even though I know I should just let the nail polish spilled all over the bathroom by Thing 2 go, I end up softly banging my head on the wall while counting backwards from 100.

Then I remember that I’m a chick and I have hormones. So I pour a glass of wine and lock myself in the bedroom while the children proceed to absolutely destroy the house and I attempt to regain my sanity. As a warning, I might even g-chat Leif at work:

I am nothing if not considerate.

Then Ashley will ping me with some fascinating factoid about the dangers of sex swings (so she’s heard*) and how real friends will help you move bodies. In five-inch heels. In the mud. Everyone should have a friend like Ashley. But you can’t have her. She’s mine. Go find your own Ashley.

See? I’m totally moody. And apparently possessive.

Then Larry will ping me and tell me that my segment on his show is popular, and that will cheer me up, and also remind me that I have actual work I need to be doing, like writing about the crazy train that is Glenn Beck, but then the kids need feeding, cleaning, and tucking into bed, which requires another glass of wine and not a small number of deep breaths and then they’re down and wow two glasses of wine when I forgot to have lunch is a bit much so maybe I’ll make a sandwich first because I’m obsessed with sandwiches and that sounds perfect and tasty and delicious — and oh my gosh just go to bed and stay there!**

Finally finally finally get the kids settled (I think they were a wee bit skeered of Mean Mommy), sandwich made and consumed, and sat down at my computer. And then this post came out of my head instead of the one I was supposed to write.

I was going to write more (maybe) but Leif just came home. With more wine.

I’m outs.

*Don’t worry Ashley’s mom. It was purely contextual, I swear.

**This is what us professional writers call a run-on sentence. I’m using it purely as an example here of what you should never do when writing professionally. Or something.

It’s 5:15 a.m. and I’m awake. I’ve been waking up at 4 recently, unable to go back to bed after my third bathroom trip of the night (thank you, childbirth) because by that time I’m no longer exhausted enough to drown out my darling husband’s snores with sleepiness.

Side note: Isn’t snoring the worst sound in the world? Ok, maybe the third worst, following nails on a chalkboard and cats in a blender. Not that I’ve ever heard cats in a blender. But I can imagine, and it’s not pretty.

Sometimes I can jam earplugs in and throw a pillow over my head and find a couple more hours of elusive rest. But I’ve had this cold recently, and the stuffy nose and the cough and poor tender head make me ache while I wait for the meds to kick in, and by the time they do … I’m pretty much awake.

By the time the clock hit five, I knew I was done, so I threw the covers off and headed down the hall to write this very post. The light was on. Huh. Strange. Stranger still was the sound of the TV. Ok, no longer strange.

Here’s what I found:

This little goober didn’t go to sleep until nearly eleven last night, even though she was put to bed before nine. It was the same old But I Need game, which (I’m pretty sure) children have played since the dawn of time. You know the one.

But I need a drink!

But I need to go potty!

But I need my night light!

But I need socks that don’t bother my feet!

But I need a hug!

But I need a different song on the ipod!

But I need to be tucked back in!

You get the idea. Anyway, my little non-sleeper was out in the living room watching TV. Which she is not allowed to do on school days. Apparently, she thought that rule only applied to afternoons and evenings, so she forced herself awake after six precious hours of sleep to enjoy some tunes.

New rule: No getting up until 6:30.

Except for Leif. If he wants to get up pre-crack of dawn and leave me to sleep in peace … I’d be ok with that. Love you, Honey!

So I wrote some stuff last week that I’d love for you to read. Click, read, comment, share – especially share. Word-of-mouth is where it’s at, baby. Plus, I really can’t afford fancy advertising. It’s ‘spensive.

The Occupy Wall Street goons are still on display. President Barack Obama feels their pain and understands their frustration. Iran thinks they’re swell. Iran also stones rape victims for ‘sexual immorality.’ As a general rule, I like not to agree with Iran on pretty much everything.

Obama called Mitt Romney a flip-flopping flip-flopper, which is completely true, of course. However, there’s this saying that come to mind about glass houses and throwing stones…

Priorities in Topeka are messed up, y’all. Social welfare programs and inflated benefits and pensions are not more important than legally protecting victims of domestic abuse.

My day began just before 8, as Leif was leaving for work. I debated going back to sleep, then remembered that the girls had been up until almost midnight last night, and would most likely sleep another hour or two. So I grabbed a Coke Zero and my laptop and started perusing the headlines.

Decide to write about Social Security reform and email my editor at The Stir to get the go-ahead. Promise her I’ll try to make it entertaining, because let’s face it – SS reform can be dry and boring.

Check on Twitter. It’s still there.

Check on Facebook. It’s still there too.

Don’t check Google+. Because I’m not sure if I care whether or not it’s still there.

Do some research for my article.

Just after 9, I hear stirrings from the kids’ room. They get up and immediately declare that they’re hungry. I decide that if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard I’m hungry since Thing 1 learned to talk, I’d be one of those rich people President Obama wants to tax so much.

The next 3 hours or so is spent feeding the natives, breaking up fights, responding to emails and texts, researching Social Security, and finding photos for a Home Economics Lesson I have coming up (soon, I hope), and consuming no less than 4 Coke Zeros.

Decide to take the girls to the beach. It is the last week of summer vacation, after all.

Hit the bank to deposit a few checks (yay!), then drive-thru for Mexican food.

Tacos! (Watch out for seagull jerks)

Beach. Kids have a blast. A seagull tries to steal my taco. I decide to tweet, “Seagulls are assholes. #fact” Before sending, I change assholes to jerks. Because I like to save my swear words for when it really counts, and jerks conveys my message just fine.

Hear from Leif on my iphone. He says he’ll be home by 8 to read to the girls and tuck them in. Decide to leave the beach just after 6. This is also known as the Wrangling of the Short Sandy People That Just Realized They’re Exhausted Because Fun Time Is Over and They Can’t Possibly Walk Back to the Car and Why Can’t Mommy Carry Everything Including Them?

Bribe them with promises of McDonald’s smoothies.

Car. Drive-thru. Smoothies. Extra-large Diet Coke for moi. Home. Showers. Bleach to clean the tub after an incident. Another shower to make sure Thing 2 is totally clean after said incident.

Start the laundry. Warily eye Mt. Washmore and sigh.

It’s 7:30. Haven’t heard from Leif, so he must be on the way home. He knows one of the only ways to really mess with my head is to not tell me (ahead of time) that he’s not going to be home when he said he’d be home.

Make dinner.

7:58. Leif g-talks me to say he’s still at work. 40 minutes away. Take a deep breath and count to 10, because I’ve heard that’s supposed to help with anger management. Decide that people that say that don’t have small children that interrupt you 8 times in 10 seconds to ask why you’re rubbing your temples and could they please have some dinner because they’re starving to death even though they’ve been eating all freaking day long.

Sit the girls down for their 8^th meal of the day, grab the laptop, and start writing this post.

It’s now 8:50. Have not heard from Leif. He’s probably skeered. Have poured first glass of wine for the evening. Getting ready to throw the kids into bed as soon as this episode of iCarly is over.

Then will pour second glass of wine, write my Social Security article, do two more loads of laundry, pour another glass, and convince Leif to rub my shoulders. Forgive him.

After that? I guess that depends on how good the shoulder rub is.

Update: 10:48 and Leif is finally on his way home. Article only half written. 2 loads washed and dried … not put away.

So yesterday I threw myself a little pity party. It was a looooong day, especially considering I couldn’t sleep the night before because of the big snoring man in my bed. I slept from 1-3, then just could not get back to sleep. It was like those horrible power naps that toddlers do in the last five minutes of a car ride, and then they think they’re ready to roar instead of going to bed. Parents, I know you know what I’m talking about.

So I was exhausted to begin with. Then the Things woke up slightly cracked as well. I put them in front of the TV, because I had about two hours of phone calls and loads of writing that needed to be done.

I made them turn off the TV after a few hours (yes, I said few hours. Judge away, Judgey McJudgerson), but maybe I should’ve just called it a day and let the thing stay on. Because I was left with two TV monsters.

TV Monsters are worse than Playdate Monsters, but not as bad as Birthday Cake Monsters. Crap. Fine. Whatevs. Let’s get some energy out. Time to walk to the park. Maybe I’ll even make up for being a crummy mommy by buying them ice cream at the A.M.P.M. across the street from the park!

We found our shoes, Furbaby’s leash, I slipped my credit card into the back pocket of my jeans, and we were out the door. It usually takes fifteen minutes or so to walk the halfish mile to the park, but the girls were flying, excited to get to their frozen yumminess. The idea was to get the ice cream, then let them burn off some energy at the park.

We walk in, and the girls picked out ice cream cones. There was a line. There was someone that couldn’t figure out which lucky lottery scratcher should be his. It was 90 degrees outside. I was holding a squirmy dog that didn’t get why she couldn’t be on the floor. Two little girls were dancing impatiently, asking if they could eat their ice cream.

Yes, that’s fine. I didn’t want it to melt before they had a chance to enjoy it.

Do you know what’s coming next? A.M.P.M. doesn’t take credit cards. I had no way to pay for the two cones my kids were munching on. I felt like such a dick. Especially because I totally knew they only took cash or debit. Which is why we usually go to the 7-11. But I didn’t want to walk the kids along a busy road, and it’s the opposite direction of the park anyway.

I stammered something about coming right back to pay him, I live just right over there and I’m so sorry, no really I am, I never do crap like this and I really want to pay you and I swear I’ll be right back!

The guy just sort of waved me off and said I could come back. He didn’t seem to believe me, and determined to prove him wrong, we skipped the park and went straight home, where I grabbed my purse, buckled the girls into the car, and drove back. It couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes later, but there had been a shift change, and I had to explain to a very confused man that I wanted to pay for two ice cream cones that had already been consumed.

That was fun. Not.

Finally back home, park skipped, now behind on a deadline, I ask them to PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD AND HOLY KEEP IT DOWN SO MOMMY CAN RUB HER THREE REMAINING BRAIN CELLS TOGETHER AND WRITE SOMETHING COHERRENT!

And then they turned into these angel demon children and mewed screamed like kittens banshees for the next few hours. Meanwhile, my head is pounding, my hands are literally starting to shake with exhaustion, and every time I talk to Leif, he sounds distracted and distant, and just says he’ll be home ‘late.’

Fine. Whatevs.

Somehow manage to get the girls fed and into bed, sit down to try and put together my podcast. And then Leif calls to tell me he’s headed home; he had a crappy day, and is there dinner?

Gah.

He told me not to worry about it, but he sounded so damn sad I thought to myself, poor guy worked a fourteen-hour day, the least I can do is throw together some tomato sauce and boil water for spaghetti. And as I chopped onions and garlic and filled pots, my brain simmered with the tomatoes. Only the tomatoes were probably smarter at this point.

Must be nice to work all day without howler monkeys climbing all over you and then come home to dinner.

I’m so sick of it being a mess in here. I need to call that lady to come clean, but I have this horrible fear of calling people.

I’ve called John Thune, I should be able to call Rita’s Cleaning Service.

Talking to John Thune was fun.

Way better than today, which has sucked beyond a thousand sucks, and it totally would’ve sucked less if Leif had come home earlier, or at least been a little bit nicer to me on the phone.

Come to think of it, it’s totally his stupid fault that I’m this exhausted. Why couldn’t I have a normal-allergy free husband? Then I could put Parmesan in this sauce and it would be so much better and Leif ruins everything including Yosemite because he’s allergic to everything that grows and he snores and its not fair and oh my God I’m sitting on the kitchen floor sobbing and talking to my mom on the phone asking her to say something nice about me because God this is too much to handle right now and I know I love Leif but right now I’m so damn upset with everything and it’s totally all his fault.

Got off the phone. Leif got home a minute or two later. He snapped at me for making dinner, saying he could’ve done it himself. I said, “I know it’s irrational and you won’t understand, but I’m just so angry with you that I can’t even stand it.”

I tried to get the podcast put together before it needed to be uploaded, but it wasn’t happening. I was just … done. My brain was officially shutting down. I tweeted this:

I really couldn't.

And then I cracked open Proverbs 31, because maybe that lady of virtue had some advice. This verse resonated in my soul – “Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.” It’s about God, not about me.

Not. About. Me. I was wallowing in discontentment rather than showing appreciation for the wonderful things I’ve been blessed with. I mean, Leif worked 14 hours yesterday, and he just g*talked me to say he’s still at work. He went in at 8 this morning. It is now almost 10pm. He does this so that our daughters can go to private school and the doctor and piano lessons and we have a roof over our heads and safe cars to drive and an occasional vacation. So he’s allergic to everything. Oh well. It’s turned me into a great cook because I have to make everything from scratch. So he’ll never camp in Yosemite. I won’t have to worry about a bear eating me.

I’m sure I’m not exactly what Leif thought he ordered either. I’m impulsive and impetuous, I hate cleaning more than just about anything, and I will never understand anything about computers, comic books, or RPGs.

Thing 1 has this saying she picked up in school somewhere: You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

Sometimes life is rough, and it’s so easy to fall into a pity pot and think, “Only if…” There is no “only if.” It doesn’t exist. Yeah, working from home is not a piece of cake, but I get to be there to walk them to the park and accidentally steal ice cream cones for them.

Yeah, I have stretch marks, but they are so worth it for those two gorgeous girls.

We don’t have a house with a backyard, but we have a gorgeous (cluttered) home in America’s Finest City. And a community pool.

I will probably never learn to play the guitar. But that’s ok. I have an iPod. I’m good.

I don’t have a convertible, but I have tons of daydreams about having one someday. And daydreams are fun.

I don’t have a sister, but I have amazing parents, brothers, in-laws, children, and of course my Leif, who is still at the office at 10:04.

I got what I got, and gosh it’s a lot.

I’ll try not to throw any more fits.

P.S. Yes, we kissed and made up. It’s what we do.

Hiney Sculpting Machine

Around 10:45 last night, I randomly felt that although I’ve pretty much lost the weight that caused this problem, my hiney could use some improvement.

I know! I thought with a flash of mad impulse, I’ll get up early and go to the gym and climb the Butt-Buster StairMaster from Hades! Hellooooo fabulous gluteus maximus!

Before catching some zzz’s, I picked up a book. Nothing like lying in a dreamy bed and reading without small people attempting to draw and quarter me. It’s very relaxing, you know.

Four hours later…

2:45.

Crap. I hate when that happens. But I didn’t know the book was going to be so gut wrenching! Ex-prostitutes! Hardened widowers! Bawl! I highly recommend it.

Light off.

Kick Leif to turn over and stop snoring.

One last bathroom break.

Stub toe in the dark.

Curse.

Back to bed.

Kick Leif again.

Turn over!

No, you’re on your back again!

Yes, you are!

Close eyes.

Sleep for half an hour or so.

Wake up.

SKNX-X-X-X

Kick.

Flip.

Sleep.

SKNX-X-X-X

Kick.

Flip.

Sleep.

SKNX-X-X-X

Repeat a few times until the alarm goes off at 7:30.

Pop open a sugar free Red Bull.

Pack school crap for Thing 1.

Pack work crap for Leif.

Try to decide whether to curse Leif’s allergies or ADHD.

Shift. Snore. Shift. Snore. Shift. Snore. All. Night. Long.

Fanaticize about being Victorian, with separate bedchambers.

Decide chamber pots aren’t worth it.

Blog.

It’s cheaper than therapy.

Good morning everyone!

(The Red Bull has started to work its magic.)

I’m a total lame-o. I’m also NOT a morning person. Like, at all. I cannot be considered a functioning human being until I’ve gone vertical and at least cracked open a Coke Zero.

Which means trouble when Leif has to be at work by 7 and I’m left to get the kids up and out of bed, fed, dressed, hair brushed, and Thing 1 to school by 8:15. Yesterday morning we were only a few minutes late. This morning? This morning I looked at the clock when I woke up and cussed. It was closing in on 9. The girls were in their room just waking up.

MAD DASH!

Because I have mad skillz in the getting-ready-quickly-because-I-want-to-sleep-as-long-as-possiblee department, we were signing a tardy form in the school office in less than half an hour.

Thing 2 was not amused to leave her playmate at school. Already feeling like a failure as a parent, I really didn’t want to spend the morning trying to ignore the four-hour-long tantrum I could feel coming. So we went to Barnes and Noble so she could play with the train table and hopefully another kid or two.

So. There I was in all my morning glory. Pony tail, only the slightest bit of makeup, bloodshot eyes, and I’m pretty sure I my right armpit missed out on the deodorant. But that’s ok! It was before 10 – not like the other moms at Barnes and Noble care about the dark circles under my eyes or my lazy, messy hairdo.

I made an important realization this morning at the bookstore. Dads should not be stay-at-home-dads. Especially not ridiculously good looking dads with manners and charm and adorable chubby toddlers.

Because while I can’t even manage to get my kid to school on time, let alone blowdry my hair or put earrings in or brush my teeth (crap, I just realized I didn’t brush my teeth this morning), this dude is probably the perfect husband to the perfect wife, and they live in their perfect house and sing opera together for fun. They probably kick ass at laser tag too.

Then I remembered how easy it is for guys to get ready in the morning. How sexy stubble is on a chin, but not on legs. The simple decision between a t-shirt and shorts or a t-shirt and jeans. And the fact that you can take almost any dude, add a baby, and it’s automatically sexy.

Then I thought about all the times over the last year or two Leif has played stay-at-home-dad to the Things when I’ve had places to go and things to do. And I wonder if any other moms worried about being schlepy in front of the cute, charming dad with an adorable chubby toddler.

Then I realized I love my life, even if it isn’t manicured and perfect. Stepford wives are boring robots anyway.

I also decided to set no less than three alarm clocks for tomorrow morning.

The scene: Thing 1 yelling from her bedroom, at bedtime, to Leif and me in the living room.

Thing 1: “May I have some W-A-T-E-R?”

Leif: “No.”

T1: “P-L-E-A-S-E?”

L: “N-O.”

T1: “C-O-M-E-O-N!”

(This is when we started giggling)

L: “I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-B-U-T-N-O”

Me: “Well that will keep her busy for a while…”

T1 (mumbling): “I love you…B-U-T-N-O… butno?” (Now she yells to us): “What’s a butno?”

Laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.

The following is a conversation with my husband Leif. We were driving home from somewhere, and the car is definitely the place where all important conversations take place and difficult decisions are made.

“Someone asked why I wasn’t planning to run for elected office in the near future. I told him that my husband didn’t want me to.”

“Yeah?” He asked with an eyebrow slightly raised. “What did he say?”

“Something along the lines of ‘was I going to let that stop me?’”

“And you said…” The eyebrow shifted up even higher.

“I said of course it would stop me. Just like if you wanted to make a major career change that disrupted our entire life together, not to mention the effect on our kids, I would never expect you to go ahead with it if I weren’t completely on board.”

“So you don’t think I should quit my job and go to seminary and become a pastor?”

“Um…no. I didn’t marry a pastor, I married a software engineer.”

“So what do you have against pastors?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to be married to one.”

“Well I don’t want to go to seminary anyway.”

“I know! So it’s totally different, because I actually want to run for Senate.”

That’s when I got the my-wife-is-ridiculous-but-adorable-so-I-love-her-quirks look.

“What?” I asked incredulously. “I could totally run for Senate. If I had a supportive husband, that is.” I tried my best to glower. I don’t think it worked very well.

“Next time someone asks you why you let your husband boss you around, just tell them it’s because I beat you.”

“You only beat me because you’re crazy good at games and never let me win.”

“If you played more, you’d get better at them and then maybe you’d really win.”

“I would, but I hate to lose.”

“And you want to run for Senate?”

“Completely different. I wouldn’t LOSE that!”

A clucked tongue and “um-hmm.” was all I got in reply.

“Well I wouldn’t.”

“Jennifer, no one’s going to let you win a Senate race.”

“You’re just scared I’ll lose and be an impossible biotchay to live with.”

“Damn straight.”

“You may have a point.”

After a moment or two of pondering, I only had one more thought to add.

“Except I wouldn’t lose.”

And then my smartypants hubby did the only thing he could to get out of his wife pestering him. He said, “I have no doubt you wouldn’t lose. But we’d miss you too much if you were a Senator.”

It’s true, you know. If I were a Senator, Leif might actually have to learn to do laundry. The horror!

“Well I’m still not ruling it out.”

And that’s when we got home and saw the neighbors struggling to bring in a new crib. Apparently they’re expecting a little girl in August. And that’s when my uterus throbbed and I thought about having another baby in a couple of years instead of running for Senate.

Except maybe I think I’ll do both.