Everyday poetry, heavy on the parentheses

I heard this wonderful poem on the radio yesterday; it was at 8:45 a.m., after I had:

changed a diaper;

negotiated two picky children into their clothing (since when does a 20-month-old boy have an opinion about what he wears? Why is the adorable corduroy shirt with tiny embroidered bulldozers and backhoes met with a vigorous shake of the head and an emphatic "DunYIKE it. DunYIKE it. DunYIKE it Mama!");

prepared and served waffles with peanut butter (the toaster kind--I'm not insane);

combed snarls out of tangled hair;

located shoes, coats, hats, and mittens and applied them to uncooperative feet, arms, heads, and hands (it was all of 3 degrees outside);

herded same hands, feet, etc. down the driveway, into the garage and into car seats ("I kime, mama. I kime!");

3 minutes later, shuffled children out of car and into school (lost one mitten in process; returned by parent arriving after us);

after lengthy drop-off (involving emptying and filling of cubbies, trips to the nursery, the preschool room, and the bathroom), traveled to nearby store;

returned Christmas decorations deemed unsuitable by husband;

secured only available pair of 18-month size snowpants (which don't match coat, which doesn't match mittens);

stopped at drive-through for a chai tea latte;

arrived at home to savor desk job.

***

I know am very lucky to have the job that I have (I also worked hard to get it) and the pretty good work-family balance it affords me. I know I've also been very lucky to have gotten to this point without dealing with a lot of crappy jobs along the way. I've never waitressed or worked retail (I told you I was a princess) or dealt with an obnoxious boss. Even in high school I worked in an office. I did have a paper route, but I liked it because I listened to my Walkman while I delivered, and (importantly) my brother handled the early morning papers on the weekends, and I did the afternoons during the week.

The only job I really hated was a weekly babysitting gig I had in New York when I was in my early 20s. The house was dirty and messy. I was afraid to eat any of the food. The mother's slightly weird brother would come in and out while I was there. And the kids were monsters. I could not figure out how to make them listen to me or refrain from beating each other up or go to bed when they were supposed to. Eventually I just gave up and left them in their room and hoped they'd drop in their tracks before their mother came home.

So I can't really enter Debbie's shitty resume contest. But you should. Because awesome prize! And also, we all want to hear your scary stories.

***

Second contest alert: Kristen's Support a Mom Contest: Expectant Mom Edition. Nominate your favorite blogger-with-bun-in-oven and you both win.

***

To answer your questions about the Shrimp-Free Party: I didn't get drunk...just one glass of wine, because otherwise narcolepsy sets in and that's not very festive. No photos on Flickr! My blog is still subrosa here in Mayberry, so I can talk about my neighbors!

And I would use that anesthesiologist again, actually. Despite his frat-boy demeanor and his apparent pyromania, he has the best bedside manner of any doctor who's ever cared for me. At a time and place when everyone in the room was focused on my baby (which of course was as it should be) he was the only one paying attention to me. He held my hand and very calmly talked me through the whole operation (c-section after umpteen hours of labor), and made sure I knew exactly what was happening and why. And that was after I threw up on his feet.