Grouch McGrump Needs To Move Out of My House

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Sometimes at night I can get really lazy. I hit a wall and feel like doing nothing else for the rest of the day. I don’t feel like doing anything but maybe stare at the show “Infested” on TV so I can watch the lady who has tons of ladybugs invade her house causing brown recluses to come out of the woodwork. I also don’t even feel like brushing my teeth. I don’t feel like washing my face. And, on many nights, I don’t.

I once read that Lady Gaga doesn’t wash the make-up off of her face at night, so why should I?

But, I do.

Most nights.

The reason I do is not why you would think. It’s not because it will make me feel cleaner or give me less wrinkles someday. The reason is not so I won’t scare my husband away when he wakes up in the middle night to see mascara smeared all over my face.

The reason is my 5-year-old son.

He likes the smell of my face wash.

After washing my face, I will lean down to give him a kiss good night. He holds my face there with his little hands, takes a deep breath and says, “Mmmmm. Your face smells dood, Mom.”

(It’s less “dood” and more “good” these days. He’s doing this thing where he’s growing up.)

I love that.

So much.

(It’s nice to be told you smell good. A little girl at work told me the other day that I smelled like her grandmother’s car.)

I want him to remember sweet smells from a mom that loves him. I want him to smell that smell later in his life and remember that his mom tucked him in at night. Mostly, I want him to think of feeling loved and cared about and nurtured and supported and all of those warm, fuzzy things.

Because, many nights, I’m Grouch McGrump.

You all are busy writing things you are thankful for on your Facebook page and I’m busy being Grouch McGrump.

Lately, I haven’t been washing my face before saying good night. Sometimes I don’t get to take care of myself before tucking him into bed, so he gets the sweaty, gritty me before he goes to sleep. A sweaty, gritty me that’s stressed out.

“You two need to get into bed!”

“Why are all of these clothes everywhere?!”

“This is not time for playing. No more playing. QUIT PLAYING!”

“Go to bed, go to bed, go to bed. I’m tired. Go to bed. No more talking.”

“I hate that iPad. Give me that iPad. No more iPad. I don’t want to see the iPad for the rest of my life. This is not iPad time. This is time-to-go-to-sleep time. NO MORE iPAD!”

The other day my 9-year-old said, “Mom, why are you in a bad mood at night?”

Dagger. Right here in the dang ticker.

That’s not how I want them to remember me. That is not a memory I want to make.

It is no excuse, but my work hours have kicked up quite a bit since both boys are in school. I’m still part-time, and I still drop them off at school and pick them up right after it’s over in the afternoon, but when you add work, housework, homework and football games/practice-related work, I feel like I never stop. The boys are sharing a room right now and it’s a mess. The playroom is a mess. My study is a mess. I have clothes and dishes everywhere. I feel like I can’t always give my all to work and can’t always give my all at home.

My boys deserve my all.

My home deserves my time.

People deserve to be able to walk through my playroom without tripping. (Sorry, mother-in-law.)

And Grouch McGrump needs to move her butt out.

This little post is my wake-up call and Grouch McGrump’s eviction notice. Even if I can’t get my house like I want it, I can shake off the grumpiness before reading them a book at night, which we still do every night.  (When I’m grumpy, I read it too fast and without inflection. Bad mommy. Bad, bad mommy. ) I can be nicer. I can be less yell-y. I can be more laugh-y.

And I can still wash my face.



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