The Plan. Is. Sacred.

It is Wednesday. Just remember that piece and we'll all get along just fine. Sadly, someone didn't remember that is was freaking Wednesday.

Having gone from one child, to four, with all the inherent changes (the laundry pile practically eats me alive, and since the washer/dryer are right in front of the closet, it gets ugly, fast....the grocery shopping is another interesting olympic sport we engage in weekly) I like to have A Plan.

I'm pretty scheduled.

Sort of.

Okay. Maybe not totally.

But kind of.

Enough that when the schedule is thrown off by something stupid? Chaos Theory Reigns Supreme. Little things, tend to throw one over the edge. (now, while I am aware, I have, maybe, one or two naggingly annoying habits, we are not here to discuss my shortcomings; just a little aside) The dishwasher, for example. It's yawningly empty. So empty it echos. I know this, because I emptied it, twice, Tuesday, so all the bottles and parts for them were not only clean, but sanitized. Imagine my surprise then, when not only did I make dinner (a lovely dinner, might I add!) but found (to my horror) all the dishes lined up nicely on the counter ABOVE the dishwasher Wednesday morning, I wondered:

What. The. F.

Seriously?

If you're already standing at the dishwasher, one you don't even have to empty to fill! why not bend at the waist instead of reaching up to stack the dishes? Plus also? Then I might have had a clean bottle for Baroness Von Bitchenhausen, who has currently taken over possession of my baby girls disposition. When she's hungry, she would enjoy her bottle RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND. So, fine. Men are notorious at being unable to appropriately load a dishwasher (ladies that I have spoken to all agree) - we get more in there, neatly, so all the dishes get cleaned the first time around. Perhaps, then, I could look at this as the "if you want it done the way you want it done, then you do it" -

I don't want to.

So Wednesday is off to a rocking start in this house. The screaming has reached a decibel that if the doorbell rang and Pucker wasn't here? I don't think I could hear it. Wednesday are about my favorite part of the week, and that is for one reason: Jonathan, Lovely J, makes dinner. Yep. He's in charge of choosing, prepping, cooking, and serving something hot, and cooked. (as you can tell, my standards are not that high at this point in our lives) Shoot, Mac and Cheese with hotdogs in it counts. Hot? Yes. Cooked? Yes.

Do I need to give a thought to dinner on Wednesday?

No.

A gift from heaven.

So when football practice was switched to a field closer to us, so we could practice under the lights, we went from a 5:30-7:30pm schedule, to a 6-8pm. We are now, about four minutes from home, versus nearly 20. (I swear, I am getting to a point. It may not be a great point? But I have one) I sent J the email from coach, so he was aware: evidently, while I was balancing Screech, as she is affectionately known around here in the mid-afternoon hours, I did not check my email. I did not see the "why don't you feed Fox a great meal before practice, and just snack him for second dinner".....and when I did? At 5:15pm?

I was annoyed.

Not at the suggestion. (Hmm...okay at that too) But because it is Wednesday night.

I have no dinner ideas, no dinner prepped, nary a slow cooker, sauce pan, or fryer going. The oven is cold enough to store meat. I do not make dinner on Wednesday nights. Toss in there, that Screech, on her best days hates her car seat with a passion I save for my X, or eggplant, no matter how it's cooked, now is going in the car, to the highschool, to be passed off in the rain to daddy, because he had to get gas on the way home. (I get the getting gas, but for pete's sake, take the baby with you)

I am now doubly annoyed.

Lest I beat this dead horse into total submission (yes, I realize, it may be there by now) it is (say it with me here)

Wednesday Night.

We have a plan. We follow the plan. We do not deviate from said plan, especially last minute when I'm really not in the I'll Flow With The NEW Plan kind of mood. Oh, I may bitch about football, the cold, the rain, the snow, the freezing metal bleachers when I forget to bring my own blanket so my ass chills my back all the way up to my neck, and down to my toes, a cold so biting it takes hours to warm up after (it is worse when the temp is below 55, I admit) - but in the end?

I have grown up conversations at football. I see other people at football. Usually I take Screech, so it's a doubly nice treat that she is staying with Daddy on a (obviously) sacred Wednesday night. The same night I don't have to cook, because that is not in the plan.

Why, might you ask, is it not in the plan?

Yep.

That's right.

Because.

It. Is. Wednesday.

Sigh.