So we've had several readers and friends e-mail us about good old Gwynnie's latest installment of GOOP in which she and two of her besties give advice about "finding balance" as working mothers.
If you haven't read this brilliant piece of unintentional comedy I suggest you do so. Immediately. We'll wait.
And now for LiLa's take:
Lisa on Tuesday, January 18th, 2011:
Vaguely hear Jack and Mia stampede out of their room and into the bathroom. A loud crash startles me out of my twilight slumber, Mia starts wailing and Jack screams at the top of his lungs that he HATES HAVING A SISTER. I drift back to sleep. 20 minutes later the kids are downstairs watching Sponge Bob or some other show that's strictly forbidden unless mommy's too tired to get out of bed and I've managed to drag myself to the bathroom and throw on some yoga pants. Grab Ben, feed him, attempt to referee any fights that break out between the other kids with arbitrary threats I'll never follow through with like, "IF YOU DON'T STOP SCREAMING I'LL THROW AWAY ALL OF YOUR TOYS." Effective parenting FTW.
March everyone into the car like a psychotic drill sergeant. Notice Mia has her shoes on the wrong feet. Too tired to care. Ben screams for the first 15 minutes of our car ride to school and I blast Mumford and Sons in an effort to transport myself to my "happy place." Fail. Ben finally falls asleep just as we've pulled into the parking lot of Jack's school. Jack immediately leaps out of his car seat, kisses/head butts Ben and the screaming resumes almost immediately. Crank the radio up a little louder. Come to a rolling stop, shove Jack out of the car and laugh maniacally when his teacher shouts after me, "Did he have a lot of sugar this morning?" Thank God for preschool.
When I tell Mia we're headed for the gym she cries and I end up promising her a donut if she'll stay in the playroom for an hour. Get to the gym, toss Mia and Ben in child care, race to the elliptical and jack up the Pandora app on my phone. Attempt to hide when I see the child care manager roaming the gym like the angel of death five minutes into my work out. I know deep down in my heart of hearts that the bell tolls for me. And sure enough she gives me the nod. Try to convince myself that a 5 minute workout is better than nothing. The yoga pants cutting into my gut tell a different story.
Pick Jack up from school, slap lunch on the table and attempt to bribe the kids into taking a nap with promises of a special treat when they wake up. They "sleep" for 10 minutes, demand a treat and I end up locking myself in a closet to talk to our publicist. See, you really can have it all!
Flip on Dora around 5 in an attempt to make dinner. Kids find out I'm making Chicken Parmesan and carry on like I've announced that they'll be eating Bambi for dinner. They beg for Toy Story Mac and Cheese. Jack hides the uncooked chicken in the basement. After 10 minutes of searching and screaming I find it, I cook it, and everyone refuses to eat it.
Kids get a quick shower, brush teeth and are summarily tossed into bed sans foot massage. (Um, seriously? Do any of you massage your kids' feet? Am I missing something here? I mean, I pat myself on the back if we make time for a story.) Feed Ben, quick chat with my husband and then I stare at my computer for two hours in an attempt to write this lame ass blog post.
And that my friends is a little something we like to call REALITY. You should try it sometime, Gwyneth. It's riveting.