Just trying to obey my president
/
I feel proud in admitting that my life is anything but glamorous. Our daily routine is about as far as you can get from the paparazzo-stalked lives of those I see on the covers of my favorite smut mags at the grocery store.
Unlike a lot of the celebrities on those covers, I am not thin and starving. Vera Wang does not dress me. I have the unfortunate privilege of having to style my own hair every morning. And nobody is standing out on my front lawn hoping to catch a glimpse of me in juicy sweatpants, wearing no make-up.
Lord help us, that would be quite a fright for the paparazzos now, wouldn't it?
But what my life lacks in spontaneous excitement, it definitely makes up for in predictability.
And being the OCD freak that I am, I like me some predictability. It's reassuring and familiar. A warm blanket of routine and order. You can count on it to be there, come rain or come shine.
For instance, I can predict, with almost one hundred percent certainty, which of my three children will not like dinner on any given night.
I can predict who will be bored at which movie. And who will whine the most when dragged through which store. There is a certain comfort in the familiar and habitual behaviors that we all have.
Take this girl, for example. I know thatmy mini-me she will not willingly utter a word in the morning to anyone until after she's been fed:
[Sadly, I know that because she gets it from me. I feel you, girlfriend!]
I can also predict that each week, one of the little people in this house (whose name just happens to rhyme with 'Base') will always have a larger pile of laundry than the others. There's the same number of days between washings, but magically he seems to dirty more clothes.
(I'm pretty sure that he's just adverse to actually hanging the clean clothes up.)
And I feel confident in predicting that this little fashionista will never stop raiding my closet. Doesn't seem to bother her that our shoe sizes are not remotely the same either.
Who am I to deny the diva her most critical knee-high boots for afternoon playtime?
But in all the predictability, there is one area which is a source of constant scrutiny for me. It is my eternal struggle between what I want to do and what I know I should do.
Help me, dear friends.
Why is it that when I know I should be eating this:
All I really want to be eating is this?
I think Woodrow Wilson said it best when he said, "If you want to make enemies, try to change something."
Well, Mr. President, I definitely don't want to be making any enemies.
Warm bread and jam it is. If you insist.
Unlike a lot of the celebrities on those covers, I am not thin and starving. Vera Wang does not dress me. I have the unfortunate privilege of having to style my own hair every morning. And nobody is standing out on my front lawn hoping to catch a glimpse of me in juicy sweatpants, wearing no make-up.
Lord help us, that would be quite a fright for the paparazzos now, wouldn't it?
But what my life lacks in spontaneous excitement, it definitely makes up for in predictability.
And being the OCD freak that I am, I like me some predictability. It's reassuring and familiar. A warm blanket of routine and order. You can count on it to be there, come rain or come shine.
For instance, I can predict, with almost one hundred percent certainty, which of my three children will not like dinner on any given night.
I can predict who will be bored at which movie. And who will whine the most when dragged through which store. There is a certain comfort in the familiar and habitual behaviors that we all have.
Take this girl, for example. I know that
[Sadly, I know that because she gets it from me. I feel you, girlfriend!]
I can also predict that each week, one of the little people in this house (whose name just happens to rhyme with 'Base') will always have a larger pile of laundry than the others. There's the same number of days between washings, but magically he seems to dirty more clothes.
(I'm pretty sure that he's just adverse to actually hanging the clean clothes up.)
And I feel confident in predicting that this little fashionista will never stop raiding my closet. Doesn't seem to bother her that our shoe sizes are not remotely the same either.
Who am I to deny the diva her most critical knee-high boots for afternoon playtime?
But in all the predictability, there is one area which is a source of constant scrutiny for me. It is my eternal struggle between what I want to do and what I know I should do.
Help me, dear friends.
Why is it that when I know I should be eating this:
All I really want to be eating is this?
I think Woodrow Wilson said it best when he said, "If you want to make enemies, try to change something."
Well, Mr. President, I definitely don't want to be making any enemies.
Warm bread and jam it is. If you insist.
