September 14, 2009

Someone needs to dock my allowance.

It’s Monday which is the day I try and assess the damage done by hurricane Trash-the-House which hits like clockwork every weekend. There is boy debris and male residue everywhere. It seems that in our quest to be good attentive parents and make the most of our 2 free days with the boys, we go into suspended reality expecting Hazel to pop around the corner in her maid uniform and clean it all up.

And now it’s Monday and once again I don’t want to do what I’m supposed to.

It’s sunny in Chicago, I have a fitness trainer session (after being a complete slug all summer), which I’m really dreading because it’s very likely I’ll be the first client to get that “free session if we make your hurl!” deal, and I just want to read the US weekly with the “skinny” Kardashian sisters on the front.

The only rooms in the house that aren’t embarrassing are my kids’ bedrooms. And this is only because they want their loot at the end of the week.

I can’t believe my kids don’t call me on my bad example.
My bed rarely gets made, my closet looks like a before shot on one of those make-over shows, and there is always laundry in one phase or another sitting in baskets on my floor.

Their lack of commentary on my hypocritical ways is either because I keep my bedroom door closed all the time so they can’t see my sins, or the fact that they know better than to bite the hand that feeds their Go Go’s Crazy Bones addiction.

Whatever, at least I’m teaching them the time-honored lesson of “Do as I say, not as I do”, right?