Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I’ve resorted to Extreme Coping.
When I got home from work last night around 9:30, Nat was in bed, and Aaron was finishing his homework in his room. Don was just sitting down to channel surf for baseball games.
There was note for me on the kitchen table. “I stopped by for four hours and did laundry. Hope you enjoy the clean sheets on your bed. I’ll be back tomorrow, probably between 10:30 and 11:00 to do more. Krista.”
I am not making this up!
These days, I’m engaging in Extreme Coping. What’s Extreme Coping, you ask?
It’s cutting back your hours at work, whether you can afford to or not, because you just can’t do it. It’s paying for extra hours at daycare, when you could be home with your kids, because you just CAN’T DO IT! It’s paying for household help, because you JUST CAN’T DO IT! It’s slapping an estrogen patch on your (my) fat ass every Saturday BECAUSE YOU JUST. CAN’T. DO IT!
This morning I woke up in a clean bed. I put on clean underwear. I drove my clean kids to school (okay, in my filthy dirty, garbage-and-toy-filled car). And when the nice lady from the orthodontist’s office called to say I forgot to sign my check, and could I please stop at the bank right away to sign it, I didn’t fall apart.
That, my friends, is Extreme Coping. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?