Two houses

Two houses suck sometimes. I know my girls think that.  They don’t come out and say it with words, instead, they might wake up grumpy when it’s time to go to school, knowing they’re going to their second house in the afternoon.  They don’t want to get out of bed, they don’t want to brush their teeth, they certainly don’t want to pick out their damn dress, even though the night before they gurgled with joy about how they couldn’t WAIT to wear the ruffly one with sparkles on it.  Nope, all evening lovely memories of canoodling and smooshing each other with kisses and cuddling up with book time about the Happy Lion are forgotten.  Poof, into thin air.

I suppose I could blame it on the early morning rise which begets our single mom commute to school and work, weaving in and out of traffic as I drive across mountains (literally) to deliver my DDs to their respective drop offs, myself sprinting to my job (I hate running, but I’ve turned into an early a.m. sprinter.  I seriously wear tennis shoes to work).  Or maybe it’s the pre-dawn light and aroma of chocolate chip waffles just not doing it for them, particularly for DD2, along with the fruity pebbles on the table that DD2 has decided to protest in honor of NOT picking out her dress due to lying on the bedroom floor in a heap just mere minutes before—mean old mommy then making an executive decision to pick one to take along, declare it was ‘pajama day’ at preschool for now.  Then carrying DD2 and plopping her in her breakfast chair.  The nerve.  (and yes, it was a sugary breakfast day, sigh).

But mostly I know the overall crankiness is due to the fact that despite ‘the routine’ and kids ‘thrive on routine’ and ‘knowing what to expect,’ having to go to two houses kind of sucks.  We can’t forget a beloved blankie or a favorite lovey, and sometimes they might even get scolded for taking their beloved lovies over; we can’t forget to pack the lunch container from that house or spoon, etc. (and god forbid I forget to pack a sock or two, got a list of missing panties.  Counting panties, seriously.)  And just when they get settled into the routine at our house, then it’s time to go to the second house.  And I’m sure it can’t be easy doing it the other way, too.  Sometimes, they come home and are sad because they’re worried about their dad and what he has said.  Who knows what they say over there about me (mean fruity pebbles tyrant mommy?)  And it doesn’t help that every time they do go over there, I have inward panic attacks about what might happen, because I know what he’s capable of, and yet I have learned to control said fears behind a herculean strengthed mask of smiles and support and positivity because no matter what, my kids love their dad.  

And when they DO share with me concerning anecdotes or questions (i.e. daddy says this and crying commences), I comfort as much as I can, and knowing that the challenges will only increase as the kids get older and start questioning like older kids will, do everything I can to make them comfortable to ask me the hard questions and tell me the hard things--never judging only answering as best as i can.  Translating hard answers into something that doesn't shit-talk their dad (not helpful, and i see how stressed they get when they deliver shit-talk about me from over there), but helps them understand that human beings have limits, and people love other people the best that they know how, and NONE of it is their responsibility.

Two houses suck. 

p.s. I am grateful for the big changes and daily live the potpourri of reasons on how much our life has improved.  I am so very thankful for that.  I’m just saying, even in the best of circumstances, the house juggle can be a pain in the a$$.