Lazy Sunday, or How Having a Spouse Makes My Life Ten Million Times Easier.

When I was younger, I always wondered why the  Bangles chose Sunday as the most fun day of the week. I mean, why not Saturday? You can buy beer, and no one has to work the next day so you can stay up until 2am watching South Park and trying to figure out how to work the super cheap rice cooker you found at Walmart so you could make your own sushi. Not that I do that on Saturday nights. I'm not that boring. Pablo is, however.

Then I realized that Cyndi Lauper probably had a super hyperactive kid and a churchgoing mother-in-law. Hence, the I-don't-have-to-run-crap.

Michael's mom, Shirley, takes Henry to church with her, so I drop him off Saturday evening and pick him up around lunchtime. The plan was that I would get up and do my grocery shopping on Sunday morning to avoid the crowds like a good agnostic, then pick the kid up while basking in the glow of my productivity.In reality,I sleep 'til 11:30am, throw clothes on, race to Shirley's house and SWEAR I was up by 8am and no, I don't sound sleepy still, and yes,  it would be TERRIBLE if I'd slept late instead of doing something useful like scrubbing my baseboards or ironing Henry's Underoos.

Today wasn't that day, however. Today, I had to wake up early to get the spareribs in the crockpot, then hit the grocery store, then head out to find Henry some jeans that weren't pre-destroyed because he can destroy them himself just fine, thank you, then pick up the photo prints I'd ordered online for Henry's family tree project because I had seven photos and only 8.5x11"  of yellow paper to paste them on and my printer pretty much mechanically flipped me off when I tried to print wallet sizes on my own, then "help" Henry with his project  by doing the whole because he's four and can't glue or caption any of these photos himself, then race back to the drugstore to get tissues and children's decongestant because public schools are giant, brightly colored petri dishes with class pets and crappy food.  In between these exciting adventures, I'd also engage in some relaxation--things like getting to sit down for a few minutes to excise an epic booger from Henry's nose, or raising my voice to cheer for my favorite team: the Oh-My-God-Get-Your-Hands-Off-Your-Penis-and Put-Those-Legos-In-The-Toybox-Before-I-Vacuum-Them-All-Ups.

On those types of days, at 7:37pm, I probably wouldn't be blogging. I would probably have glued my hand to a pair of Henry's new jeans while yelling at him to eat his dinner because I don't care if there's glitter in the mashed potatoes.

However, I have a Pablo now, and he's like, the best household appliance ever. When I stumbled out of bed at 11am, he'd started the slow cooker, made breakfast, and then washed the dishes he used while making said breakfast. Then, he found my keys and my wallet and my glasses and carried Henry around on his shoulders at Old Navy so Henry wouldn't pull stuff off the shelves and bolt for Target because it has a toy section. After that, he made mashed potatoes while I worked on Henry's project and he even managed to get my fingers unstuck from the glue bottle and the red permanent marker.

Is there anything he can't do?

To be fair, it's a valid question...

The title, that is.

The answer should be pretty simple-- nothing, really. The Munchkin has been in school for sixteen days now. I don't have a job, and  I'm changing my  field of study faster than I can acquire credits. Simply put, I have accomplished absolutely nothing since Henry was born and Michael died.

But I'm still here. And Henry is happy, and healthy, and whole. Whether that's because of my best effort, or despite it, I'll never know.