By Kellie Head
Time is a fairy tale commodity for most moms, and often tacked onto words such as little,, no, or out of,. However, if you’re resourceful (and desperate) enough, you can overcome this hurdle.
My morning routine is a perfect example of utilizing multiple body parts to gain optimum efficiency. I accomplish this by simultaneously assembling school lunches with one hand and holding the baby on my hip with the other, kicking the fridge door closed with my foot, scheduling dental appointments on the phone and making wild facial gestures in hopes that someone will let the dog outside before he relieves himself on the floor. This same gesture applies to the two-year-old’s bathroom needs.
The theory behind managing this daily frenzy is solid – combine tasks to get things done in half the time. However, stopping to untangle my preschooler from the phone cord and refereeing a fight for the last Pop Tart between the teenagers eats through any time I saved by attaching a feather duster to my dog’s waging tail while I cleaned the dining room.
I’ve found it helpful to combine my (ahem) bathroom time with quizzing my daughter on her spelling words. Why is it that the only time the kids show any interest in talking to me is when I’m in the bathroom?
Many people brush their teeth in the shower to save time, but I take this one step further by hand washing the delicates during my rinse cycle. Furthermore, I save steps by draping those dainties over the shower curtain rod to dry. Now, if only I could get the kids to shampoo the dog while they bathe.
Time for intimacy is another stumbling block, since children introduce effects opposite of an aphrodisiac, yielding a screeching halt to their parents love life. It is nothing short of amazing to me that my husband and I found enough time alone to have created our six little bundles of joy.
We tuck them all into bed half a dozen times and answer the call for the endless drinks of water that, not surprisingly, results in endless trips to the bathroom. Just when we dim the lights and exchange come-hither glances, someone, invariably, has detected the hideous snarls of a monster under their bed. Sure, their beds are flush to the ground and a hairy ten-foot, one-eyed ghoul couldn’t actually fit its big toe under there, but this logic escapes them in their present state of terror. We spend the rest of the night dodging elbow jabs and knee jerks from the peacefully sleeping child between us.
Romance how-to books suggest dropping the kids of at grandma’s and wrapping yourself in plastic wrap to rekindle that old forgotten sexuality, which has since been lost to perpetual mommy-mode. What the books don’t tell you is that bending over a preheated oven, to pop in the also-recommended soufflé, will cause the plastic to fuse together, making removal a job for an auto extrication tool.
It isn’t any wonder to me that women outlive men by an average of ten years. Quite frankly, we’re at least that far behind schedule.
