Work has been so slow lately. Waiting patiently for nine hours to go by is something like me trying to wait patiently for a giant volcano to explode and wipe out Houston. I'm just not a very patient person. Motherhood has only made this (lack of) quality worse because now I do things on demand. Infants have even less patience than I do. When Z. wants to get changed, fed, held, or left alone, he lets me know about it, LOUDLY! I'm usually forced to respond, "Ok, OK! Here, I'll trade you a bottle for your right arm. Mommy wants to put the arm into the pajamas so we can go nite, nite. Mommy is very tired.... Damnit, Zachary, just give me your arm. You can play with my boobs after you get dressed."
When I have little to do at work, I'm like the overachiever in the 5th grade: the one that kept getting in trouble because she could. I want to grab my scissors and run around the office screaming, "I'm running with scissors and you can't stop me! I'm running with scissors!!" followed by a maniacal laugh that would make my bosses question why they hired me in the first place. Some people would try and find activities for themselves to do or reorganize the bathroom's supply closet, but not me. I'm too busy running with scissors and poking the kid next to me with a sharpened pencil - just because I can.
Too much time at work, followed by too little free time at home, is a dangerous combination. Before you know it, I'll be plotting the overthrow of the world during work and matching socks at home, all before going to bed at promptly 9pm.