Fussy Musty

Hubs and I were the rival factions as of bedtime last night. The rivalry bubbled out of the good news that the furniture would be arriving Friday (tomorrow) morning during the same hours that the baby has a follow-up doctor's appointment and Hubs has work obligations. I know I *should* have been more patient with his long-winded prattle about the yaddahs of his work blahs, but three children demanding equal attention are a powerful distraction. I cut off his prattle with a terse request to get back to me when he had numbers I can work with. For the rest of the night he responded to everything with, "Give me numbers I can work with."

That baby crying on your lap isnae so good with math or scheduling, my bitter boob. Heavan forbid that we should expect such skill from a tech manager. Phones are smarter than tech managers these days. Isn't there an app for that? No, I didnae say that. I didnae say much more than, "I am hurting, Babe. Back off and give me room to heal. The current numbers I am working with is that the conflict has 30 hours to find its resolution."

There isnae anything I know of to cause more insecurity in children than squabbling grown-ups. The elder siblings were up late and especially demanding. Gampy was growling like a ? ? ? robo cop? ? ?, so I had especially tough numbers to work while Hubby lounged with his smart phone. The children donae have phones to think for them. They went for the most available caregiver. Hubs was still smart phoning when my exhausted head finally found the pillow. Get your good night hug from your phone, Robo Cop.

And again I find myself surfing the net for domestic help. We need another mature body up here. Girl howdy, that is an aggressive market. The global approach to local needs makes it necessary to sort through global resources to find local help. The multi-million dollar industry which has grown from the exodus from the "Not Working" of housewoofery doesnae have enough trickle down effect to allow a nanny to commute on an intercontinental scale. Sorting. . . In between doctor appointments and school meetings, of course. All this "Not Working" is more work than a single body can do, even without the geriatric limitations. My fears of entrapment are raging again. What the fuck did I get myself into this time? Is it too late to let the other grandparents **win** the custody dispute?

This feels like a good moment to celebrate the fact that the two available grown-ups kept their fussy musties civil enough that the children slept well last night. The morning's calm still reigns.

Stepping small, praying big and letting Old Gnarly lead the dance. . . Plying therapy tools to the bitterness which has me wishing Old Gnarly would sweep Robo Cop and his high tech eggshells off the dance floor. Get your heavy metal boots off my toes. Breathing. . .