Can I just say that Friday nights basically have no meaning when you have children? The only difference for me is that the next morning I will be woken up early by my children rather than by my 5:30 a.m. alarm clock.
I walked home from the ferry this evening at 7 p.m. eagerly anticipating my arrival through the door. My children would scream in excitement and throw their arms around me. Then I would fall into the couch in front of Wheel of Fortune (Jake's favorite show, second only to America's Funniest Videos) and let the kids crawl all over me.
EXCEPT...I walked through the door and immediately got the GLARE from husband who was on his hand and knees scrubbing a suspicious spot on the carpet. The GLARE was accompanied by a terse command, "I need you to help with Jake." Apparently, he had just woken up from a nap and pooped all over himself and the carpet. I found him sitting on the toilet and wiped the nasty disgusting poop from his butt while trying not to gag. Ryan crawled over and started to cry because I wasn't holding him. Jacob joined in the crying (only harsh, shrill screams, of course) because he didn't want to take a bath. Sorry kid. When you poop your pants, you take a bath. It's the universal mom rule.
During the entire bath he screamed that he was hot, and freezing, and wet, and tired, and had soap in his eyes, and wanted to watch Wheel of Fortune, and hungry, and wanted his privacy but didn't want to be alone. Meanwhile, husband whisked away the baby who was still crying because sometimes only the Mommy will do.
I cuddled my babies, put them to bed, and now I'm watching PG family sitcoms on TV while catching up on my water intake while staring at the mountain of unfolded laundry that has been piling up all week.
Yep. Friday nights sure are special.