I was reading one of my unmarried contemporary’s blogs the other day and marveling at how much action he can pack into a single day. Surfing at dawn (on a vicious hangover no less), a day of work and errands, partying again at night on the San Francisco social scene. Just reading it made me tired. How does he have the energy? Maybe I need to work out more, if only I had the time.
Then it dawned on me. We’re rocking hard here in the M.O.T. household too, harder, I would argue than any singleton in the Peter Pan city of San Francisco.
Think about it:
3 am we’re swinging a 25 pounder back to sleep. 5 am we’re negotiating a later wake up time. 6:30 am it’s no-holds-barred party in Mom and Dad’s bed (the best time of day I might argue). For Mom the rest of the day is non-stop. T-Bone takes a mini-egg omelet these days, Dad favors some sausage. By the time the nanny shows up we’ve put in a three hour shift. Then it’s time to log in for work. The next eight hours are rocking out some work stuff while occasionally dropping in on the baby for a visit. Evenings we’ve got dinner with the baby, splash fest in the bathtub, followed by a reading session with T-Bone, then more singing and rocking before bedtime for T-Bone at 7:00. Next up it’s dinner with Dad, squeeze in an hour or so more work stuff, maybe an hour to catch up on personal email and web stuff, then we’re crashing hard by 10 pm.
I would argue that if you took the baby out of the picture I’d be in better shape to party all night long than any well-slept, weight trained twenty-something. Seriously.
