Is anyone else seriously pissed off that the US and the UK don’t change their clocks the same weekend? Can I tell you the number of times I’ve missed a conference call or a video Fancy Therapy appointment because of daylight savings time? You’d think I’d learn wouldn’t you? But no.
Settling the kids with Nanny #1, I said I’d be taking a “business call” until dinnertime, so if she could get the kids bathed and dressed, that would be handy. Then I settled myself upstairs, tissues, computer and diet Sprite in hand and got ready for a little mental check-up. And then I realized my mistake. A quick phone call (yes, I’ve memorized the number) later, and we were rescheduled for later that evening.
Now the two hours between bath and bedtime are sort of a black hole here at the Fancy Home. No matter how smoothly it all goes, I’m not getting any work done. Don’t try to call me or you’ll be shouting over Elmo. Don’t ask me to check emails or you’ll be getting responses that look like this: *#$&(QH:”OEIHQ”IOERJ from TC. Just leave me, my toddlers, and my glass of wine alone until after 7:30. That’s a firm rule around here.
But at the risk of losing $800 bucks, I had to break the rule for FT. So our session began with me sitting at the kitchen table and the girls watching Sesame Street. From there it went like this:
“How’s everything—oh Hi girls! Hi! Woo woo! –going?
“About the same, occasionally I feel a little anxious—sorry, need to get cookies—but nothing too out of the ordinary.”
“I did talk to H about that—um I think they are screaming “muhmuh” for milk, not you—and he thought you just misunderstood.
“But I’m not sure he has the emotional—if you do that again, you’re going to lose a finger!—intelligence to understand what you’re saying…”
“Nice piano. Well, you could try asking him and see how it goes.”
“And you can see why sometimes I feel overwhelmed—TC! Get your hands OFF the oven!—but I really don’t want anymore help than I have…”
“Wait. Stop. She’s not really at the oven.”
“Yes.”
“But it’s not on.”
“Yes, I’m braising turkey legs.”
“Don’t make me ask this. It’s not open, is it?”
“Well of course not. What kind of mother do you take me for—Hands off!!!”
By this point, I was now lying on the kitchen floor, one child sitting on my leg, the other whapping my head with a wooden spoon, my arms balancing the computer just over their heads.
“Sorry about this.”
“No. No, it’s actually been very insightful. Okay, let me get my calendar…”
