It’s not everyday that your favorite football team goes to the Superbowl. It’s rarer still for them to actually win. So when that happens, one can be forgiven for, ahem, overindulging a little bit.
Last night was a celebration. I ate a lot of chili and cornbread, a little ice cream, and drank roughly a gallon of Baltimore’s own Heavy Seas “Loose Cannon Pale Ale”, which, it turns out, is quite strong.
Today is not as good. Today is the opposite of a celebration. I’d think of the word for that, but it’s just not worth the mental strain. Today is groggy. Today is the same clothes as yesterday. Today my apartment smells like I consumed a lot of chili, ice cream and beer last night.
Back off ladies, he’s taken!
-No one ever
Before becoming a stay-at-home dad, I could overcome the day-after by locking myself in my office, pounding coffee and advil while staring at my computer screen with a furrowed brow as if deep in concentration. I’m sure I didn’t fool anyone, but I did my best to show up and save face, knowing that it all balances out over time.
This tactic doesn’t work with my current bosses. Oh no, today must be a day like any other Monday. Auto-pilot isn’t an option.
Parenting While Hungover (or PWH) is a completely different beast.
I tried the movie marathon earlier. No luck. Loren is good for about an hour of television max. Anything after that and he’s jumping on the couch or throwing toys across the room. Ruthie tops out at about 20 minutes before starting to lose her mind and demanding “attention” from her “father.” I knew she wouldn’t last long, but I was hoping to at least divide and conquer.
So I do what I can to manage, and it might even be good enough to get through the day unscathed. Except! Toddlers can sense weakness. Loren knows something is up, and I’m convinced he’s spent most of the morning f-ing with my mind.
“Milk please!” Oh, sure thing buddy, thanks for having such great manners [Pours glass of milk] Here you go. ”NO MILK! NO MILK! NO MILK! AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! [complete meltdown ensues].
It’s been like that all morning. He did this with brushing his teeth, getting his diapers changed, the specific movie he wanted to watch – all direct and polite requests followed by epic tantrums when I give him what he just requested. I can just picture him walking around the corner out of sight and doubling over in silent laughter after each scene.
Ruthie has been her typically pleasant self. The best she can muster to mess with me (and I’m assuming this is intentional considering the state of affairs today) is that every time I pick her up I get a static electricity shock from her all-fleece footie PJs. Every. Time. It’s to the point where I’m becoming afraid to touch her. And yeah yeah yeah I could simply change her outfit, but if you think I have that sort of effort in me right now then you didn’t read the rest of this post very closely.
I actually gave up several hours ago. I’m writing this post from the bathroom, trying to ignore the incessant knocking on the door as I yell “dada needs his privacy, please.” I’m covering my ears with my hands and the toilet seat is making my legs fall asleep.
Natalie, if you can read this: Come home soon. Ruthie needs a diaper change.
