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Sunday, December 14, 2003: Frustrated
Today was going to be lazy. It was going to be a day off, with sitting and reading and listening to Christmas carols, at least until 2:30 when it was time to go to the church for the concert. I started off right, with pancakes and eggs and gyros meat instead of bacon. I cooked that myself but I didn't mind doing it because it's nice to tool around in the kitchen. It was snowy and beautiful out, so after breakfast I took a shower and we went for a walk. While we were out we bought a couple of mats for the stroller to live on in the living room, and some more hydrocortisone for Delly's bum, and some Tempra because it was on sale. When we got home again I cooked up some pasta for Delphine, and while that was on the stove I planted some paperwhite bulbs my friend Ellen gave me, and emptied and loaded the dishwasher, and made some espresso for an iced mocha. I fed Del and drank the mocha (which didn't turn out well), and then finally got to the sitting and reading part of my day. By then it was 2:05. I have two magazines and a newspaper to read, but first I read up on how to wean your baby out of your bed. I didn't get to the magazine. I hadn't even finished my research and it was already 2:35, which was too late, so I had to rush to change and pack my music up and go. I turned out to be five or ten minutes late for choir, but I didn't miss anything; everyone was still at the milling about stage. So, my day of leisure turned out to be thirty minutes of reading, and not even fun reading. And I still have eight hundred things to do. Blake thinks if I list off all the things I have to do it won't seem as bad as if I just let them all echo hollowly off the walls of my empty brain. So here:
Well, that still looks like a shitload of things to do. The place is generally getting messier and more disordered, because I have time to make messes but not time to clean them up. We got a chest freezer a couple of weeks ago, and it displaced a whole lot of junk which doesn't have a proper home, so the junk is just hanging around the living room. But at least it's hiding in the office area behind a bookcase; the living/dining area can look presentable with a little work. Also, Delphine's got some nasty diaper rash which responds well to hydrocortisone, but apparently (according to the insert in the tube of the stuff I just bought) you're not supposed to use it on anyone under two years old with medical supervision, and if the condition re-occurs when you stop using it (it does) you're supposed to consult your doctor. So I should really take Delphine and her shiny red butt to the doctor, but that will be a pain in the ass and I'm sure she's not going to say anything except "That's diaper rash. You can't keep using hydrocortisone. Try more zinc oxide stuff." I don't know -- maybe she'll have something helpful to say. So add "make appointment with doctor" and "go to doctor" to that list up there. Also, Del's getting around quite capably now, and I really have to childproof; I have to get rid of chokeable stuff, and put rubber guards on the corners of the coffee table, and install some cabinet latches which are just way too fucking hard to install and I might just get a different kind that are easier to use. Which is kind of a waste of money. I just don't know when I'm going to do it all, because Delphine needs me pretty much all the time lately. And I'm tired of being up until midnight every night writing entries. I didn't think the only time I would be able to write would be right at the end of my day, I somehow thought it would fit in somewhere else. I didn't think Delphine would suddenly become so needy. I'm just about to cry with fatigue and frustration. I hope tomorrow is better. To think I used to make fun of those rich stay-at-home Moms with nannies. I'd give the fucking world for a nanny, just for one day a week. Or a housekeeper. A housekeeper would be fine.
Oh, the concert was fantastic. I had more stuff than that to say but I don't remember them any more. In 2001 my mother was going to have hip replacement surgery. |