This Blog Has No Pictures, and Here Is Why

I'm having a crummy week. 

Despite all my efforts at finding learning in everyday activities and applying educational theories to everyday life, I fail. I am failing miserably this week.

We are just on a bad-week right now. I can't get anything accomplished. I have half-finished blogs. I have half-eaten sandwiches in the kitchen. The dishwasher and laundry are not close to half-done. I want to sit and cry but I can't sit down because the kids will destroy the house and I can't cry because I'm too tired.

My most recent conversation with Za illustrates this. Just imagine me trying to feed Ty while the dog whines and I hear her bumbling about.

Me to Za:

I've tried to get you underwear. I will find more in a minute. Where did you get that money? Where did you find last year's Halloween costume? Why do you have my jewelry? How did you carry your radio downstairs with all that other stuff in your hands? How did you do all of this while I made a sandwich for your brother?

And on. With both kids. Both at the same time.

Me to Ty:

We have to eat because our body needs energy. It's like diesel for your engine (he has a train that needs pretend diesel to run). People need to eat (it's almost noon and he has refused all food this morning).

Me, in my head:

If this kid doesn't eat, he's going to have a meltdown and then I'm going to have a meltdown and then Za will probably join in. He hasn't eaten since dinner last night. My husband will come home and find the house colored in markers and me still in this kitchen, crying over a sandwich.

Ty: Is daddy home yet? I'll eat when daddy comes home.

So I decide that this can be a teachable moment, at least about patience, at the very, very minimal. I explain we all need a time-out. I give Ty his sandwich, take the choke-able money away from Za, the radio with an electrical cord away from Za, the too-long and trip-able costumes away from Za, and my somewhat expensive jewelry away. from. Za. The kitchen is behind me and I can see Ty with his sandwich. I sit Za down to play. I sit down to type this post and possibly rejoin the adult world for a moment.

I sit and close all my Internet windows with partially written posts. I start typing. Za is quiet and I turn around to find her emptying her package of hair bands. (You know the package sold at major stores? The one with six little compartments and about 200 of those suckers jammed in there? They are all over my floor. She looks so happy. I take her picture for this post). We manage to fit all the bands back in the container.

I keep typing.

Ty comes in from eating his sandwich (I hope) and sits at the piano. He counts every key as he bangs it. I keep typing. I take a picture of him doing that for this post. I keep typing.

Za gets up and walks up the stairs. I follow, only to realize that I know why all those rubber-bands fit in the tiny box: the rest are actually all over the stairs and second floor, like gingerbread crumbs leading me to her messes, which include toothpaste on the carpet and her bedding shoved in her closet.

I leave it all and decide to wrap-up this post before I clean. I take the card from my camera and look for the connector-thing for my computer. I can't find it. I text my husband. He has it. Of course. I decide to hit 'publish' and then I hear a noise. I turn around.

Me: Why do you have my purse?

Za: Me want daddy.

Me too Za. And not just for my dang camera-card reader.

SAHM successes are important, and their value will show in our children.  (Or at least how we handle our trying experiences).