Wednesday, February 10, 2010

My oven has been broken for two weeks. Not until something is missing, do you realise how much you need it. Up until now, things like fish sticks and pita pizzas have been staples in my protein avoiding, vegetable fearing older daughter's diet. I sneak zucchini and carrots into banana bread, there's chick peas in the muffins, I've actually called baked yam rounds "cookies" ... and now? She eats canned ravioli. It's not much good making her a nice batch of steamed yams and cauliflower because she just refuses to eat it. Heaven help us if I present her with something green!

We've also been feeding her whatever she asks for because for those three sick weeks, she ate practically nothing; that's a whole different problem.

Finally though, after a snafu with a part, the repairman will be coming back for the second time, this time to actually fix the oven (fingers crossed). I'm practically salivating to get a loaf of banana bread going. Of course, since the repairman is coming, I've spent the morning cleaning. I can't be the only one to do this; any time a stranger is coming over, I spend ten times as long cleaning. Even when it's a repairman who (again, fingers crossed) I will never see again. Last time he showed up at dinner time, while I was in the middle of feeding the girls. I had a smear of ravioli on my cheek, the kitchen was a disaster and I hadn't combed my hair since the morning before. I don't think I was wearing a bra. For some reason, I found all of this profoundly embarrassing and couldn't look him in the face the whole time he was here.

At one point, I was considering hiring a cleaning lady. Baby B was about a month old, Big B was 2 1/2 years old. Baby B hadn't slept more than two hours in a row since birth. I hadn't slept more than two hours in a row since her birth either. My house was falling apart around me. There was no way to tell which laundry was clean. The bathroom hadn't been cleaned (I was quite sure) since before I'd gone into labour. I didn't even go in the kitchen anymore and was afraid to eat anything out of the fridge. I started looking for cleaning services.

Then I realised that if I hired someone to come in and clean my house for me, I would spend the two days before they came cleaning the house. What would this person judge me for? I certainly should get anything embarrassing out of the bathroom... would she look at my books? What does that DVD say about me? Also, once I'd cleaned everything up, I'd have to artfully arrange some mess so that she'd have something to clean. All in all, just too much work.

Sometimes, I can almost understand why so much bad porn involves the lady of the house getting busy with the delivery guy - it's so much work to get ready for one to stop by, there should be more pay off than a fixed toilet.

I'll let you know if the oven gets fixed.

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