A Typical Morning
I clean the kitchen every morning after breakfast. This is a daily chore that’s less impressive than it sounds. I unload the clean dishes from the dishwasher, load the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, hand wash a few things, wipe down the counters, and, for an extra dose of sanitation, ensure there are no bits of food lying on the floor by calling the dog into the kitchen. The process takes about ten minutes if the kids put no demands on me while I’m working.
In the real world, the chore takes me about a half-hour. Abbie usually bounces around the house while I work, chasing the dog, spewing toys throughout the living room, and inventing new ways to insert and remove dishes from the dishwasher. I try to leave her alone as long as she’s not in imminent danger or about to destroy something, which means I have to remove my rubber gloves and rescue her or some fragile object every 47 seconds on average. The twins I strap into their high chairs and give them toys for entertainment so I can keep an eye on them while I work.
This arrangement lasts for about 141 seconds, or just long enough for Abbie to pull a can of formula off the counter. After that the twins become screaming little balls, furious at the indignity of being restrained in the sitting position. At this point I usually haul them into the living room and plunk them into their stationary entertainers so they can be restrained in the standing position, yet retain the freedom to rotate 360-degrees. Then, in blatant violation of the explicit warnings on the entertainers, I leave them unattended and return to the kitchen. They’re out of my line of sight, but it’s not like I’m leaving them unsupervised in the guesthouse; they’re about 15 feet away from me, separated by a wall, and I can hear their every bounce, jiggle, and spit-up. This arrangement isn’t perfect, but I do what I have to do in our tiny home to keep them happy, or at least limit their complaining to a dull whine instead of irate wailing. I try to concentrate on my work and leave them alone as long as the screaming isn’t too furious.
Ian’s screaming turned furious yesterday morning, as in “I’m in serious pain.” I rushed out to see what was wrong, and found fingernail marks on the top of his head. Abbie was apparently playing with one of the toys on his entertainer, became frustrated when it didn’t work like she wanted it to, and took out her frustrations on his head. Abbie has been doing better with her scratching and pinching, but she’s still prone to moments of weakness. I feel bad for Ian; he seems to be the one on the receiving end of most physical blows. Ian suffered the most egregious dropping incident. Abbie usually picks on him on the rare occasions when she pinches or scratches a brother. His crib is easier for Abbie to climb into, so she occasionally falls on him on her way into the cribs. Tory is the one who fell forward flat on his face a couple weeks ago, so it’s not like he’s unacquainted with pain.
I picked up Ian and comforted him back down. He calmed surprisingly quickly considering the set of red marks running through his head. After a minute, I set him back in the entertainer and returned to the kitchen. I finished as fast as possible, and spent the rest of the morning singing, reading, and playing with the kids until the boys’ naptime.
That night, I needed to do some gardening. While the boys played in their entertainers, I pulled a shovel and bucket from the basement. I left the shovel standing in the bucket in the living room while I rounded up a few other things. The shovel tipped over as soon as I turned my back. Of course the handle thwacked Ian on the head on its way down. Poor kid.
In the real world, the chore takes me about a half-hour. Abbie usually bounces around the house while I work, chasing the dog, spewing toys throughout the living room, and inventing new ways to insert and remove dishes from the dishwasher. I try to leave her alone as long as she’s not in imminent danger or about to destroy something, which means I have to remove my rubber gloves and rescue her or some fragile object every 47 seconds on average. The twins I strap into their high chairs and give them toys for entertainment so I can keep an eye on them while I work.
This arrangement lasts for about 141 seconds, or just long enough for Abbie to pull a can of formula off the counter. After that the twins become screaming little balls, furious at the indignity of being restrained in the sitting position. At this point I usually haul them into the living room and plunk them into their stationary entertainers so they can be restrained in the standing position, yet retain the freedom to rotate 360-degrees. Then, in blatant violation of the explicit warnings on the entertainers, I leave them unattended and return to the kitchen. They’re out of my line of sight, but it’s not like I’m leaving them unsupervised in the guesthouse; they’re about 15 feet away from me, separated by a wall, and I can hear their every bounce, jiggle, and spit-up. This arrangement isn’t perfect, but I do what I have to do in our tiny home to keep them happy, or at least limit their complaining to a dull whine instead of irate wailing. I try to concentrate on my work and leave them alone as long as the screaming isn’t too furious.
Ian’s screaming turned furious yesterday morning, as in “I’m in serious pain.” I rushed out to see what was wrong, and found fingernail marks on the top of his head. Abbie was apparently playing with one of the toys on his entertainer, became frustrated when it didn’t work like she wanted it to, and took out her frustrations on his head. Abbie has been doing better with her scratching and pinching, but she’s still prone to moments of weakness. I feel bad for Ian; he seems to be the one on the receiving end of most physical blows. Ian suffered the most egregious dropping incident. Abbie usually picks on him on the rare occasions when she pinches or scratches a brother. His crib is easier for Abbie to climb into, so she occasionally falls on him on her way into the cribs. Tory is the one who fell forward flat on his face a couple weeks ago, so it’s not like he’s unacquainted with pain.
I picked up Ian and comforted him back down. He calmed surprisingly quickly considering the set of red marks running through his head. After a minute, I set him back in the entertainer and returned to the kitchen. I finished as fast as possible, and spent the rest of the morning singing, reading, and playing with the kids until the boys’ naptime.
That night, I needed to do some gardening. While the boys played in their entertainers, I pulled a shovel and bucket from the basement. I left the shovel standing in the bucket in the living room while I rounded up a few other things. The shovel tipped over as soon as I turned my back. Of course the handle thwacked Ian on the head on its way down. Poor kid.
posted by Matt at
11:34 PM
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