HELP WANTED

By the fourth snooze, I was awake but still not willing give up those last seven minutes of warmth underneath the fluffy down duvet.  It was afterall, my day off from the gym and I was hellbent on staying in bed until the last possible moment.  Five hours of sleep does not a Pollyana make - at least not in my world.

So there, I was up.
Up before the birds.
Up before the sun.
Up even before God himself.

Joe will argue that I was born a morning person, but this is simply just not the case.  I claim 'victim of circumstance' much more readily than I do a genetic predisposition to waking up early.  My earliest childhood memories revolve around swimteam practice at an ungodly predawn hour.  Then there was the stint as a newspaper carrier back in the 80's when child abductions plagued suburbia.  I remember waking at 4AM just to ensure that there would be time enough to get the route bundled and delivered before heading to swimteam practice at 5 and then off to school by 6:30.  By the time I hit college I was so used to getting up early that it just made sense to get my classes out of the way so I could have the rest of my day free.  As my sorority (sorority girl, Moi?!?) sisters stumbled into the bathroom to get ready for the day I had already finished my third class, worked out and was getting ready to head to the coffee house on O Street.  Post graduate life was no different.  Wake up, work out, clean up, drive in...voila!  I'm done.

Am I used to this routine?  Well after 30 some odd years of it, I'd have to say yes.  Yes, I am.  But that doesn't mean I don't get tired.  As was the case this morning when I beat that alarm clock into submission. 

Once.
Twice.
Thrice.  Do people even say that word, 'thrice'?
Anyway, my point is this.  It was dark.  It was cold.  And I was tired.  I had one pissy diaper pressed up against a shoulder blade and a second one smashed up against my cheek.  Not even the 'aroma' wafting through a soggy bag of piss could rouse me.  I simply did not want to get up.

But I did.

get ready for work
let Luna out
empty the dishwasher
switch out the laundry 
set the table for dinner

And then the first one woke up...

change her diaper
give her vitamins
warm her chocolate milk
get her dressed
comb her hair
prep the nebs
hook her up & start treatment

as the second one started to rumble...

prep the bottle
lay out clothes for the day

while the third one, bless him, slept.

prep his chocolate milk
lay his clothes out for the day
empty the backpack & hang on front door
pack hat & mittens in his backpack

It was still dark.
It was still cold.
But by 6:30AM I had accomplished more than the U.S. Army.  Well, not really but it was an ego boost to think so.

Before racing out the door towards work, I would wake up Joe who had fallen asleep (again) on the couch in the basement.  He would be so grateful to me for getting up on my 'day off'' to help him get his day with the kids started. 

One treatment down meant one less 'deal with the devil' that he'd have to make that morning.  One less diaper to change would be one less wrestling match with The Prizefighter.  One less trip upstairs to pick out clothes that never match would mean a good impression at the doctor's office - important not to him but to his Type A wife.  And he would spring up from the leather couch, hoist me up in his arms and carry me up the basement stairs all the while stroking my ego with praises of "You're amazing!  I don't deserve you!"  At the front door he would pull me in tight, bend me over backwards and plant a passionate kiss worthy of a Harelequin romance novel cover "Goodbye, my love.  I'll be counting the minutes until you get home..."

Well, evidently the memo on my fantasy never went out and instead of Fabio, my descent down the basement steps was met by Al Bundy asleep like a baby amidst Hurricane Hugo's aftermath.  There lay Joe, my snoring husband face down in a small puddle of his own drool and surrounded by a crime scene.  We had been vandalized.  Again.

Every single puzzle dumped onto the floor.

Every single book off of the bookshelf.

Every single Matchbox car (of which there are roughly 4,324) strewn about.

Every single stuffed animal thrown in a heap.

Every single doll house furniture piece 'rearranged' on the floor. 

Every single dvd out of its case.

Every single inch of plastic Thomas the Train track laid out, unconnected.

Every single bandaid (yes, Band-aid!) out of its 500 count box and taped to the leather couch.

And my Fabio, our King of the Castle laid out on the couch, one hand dangling over the empty bowl of potato chips and the other just daring me to beat him to death with it, snoring away.  His only salvation: the fleeting thought back to that website reminding me that things could be so much worse for us, for him.

I stomped up the stairs, annoyed as all hell.

I cussed up a storm on my drive in to work.

I inhaled a pot of coffee and outlined the Come to Jesus Family Meeting we would have later that night.

Then, exhausted from my rant, overwhelmed at the thought of the chore that awaited at home and disappointed that my morning's efforts had gone unnoticed, unappreciated, the solution became all too obvious:  I, no, WE needed help.  We were outnumbered in need of a lifeline. 
And so I'm posting it here first, convinced that the power of the Internet will see me through.

WANTED:  WIFE