This is how it's gonna be?

My life, not unlike a caterpillar, has a clear cycle. It's a daily thing, and it goes something like this:

Put Peyton in high chair for breakfast. Peyton drinks his milk, then throws remaining unwanted solid food over the side of the tray.

I get frustrated and swear I won't bother cleaning it up this time.

Get Peyton down, wash his hands and face, and send him to play.

Sam manages to "accidentally" step on whatever dry food is on floor, I catch Peyton snacking on the intact remains.

I get utterly disgusted, give in, grab the broom and sweep (or vacuum) the floor anywhere near the table and high chair.

By now it's time for lunch! Back in the high chair!

Again, Peyton drinks his milk, eats a few bites of solid food, and drops remaining food overboard. He does this even if I let him pick his food, or it's something he really loves. I swear, this kid is living on nothing but milk. It's like a newborn all over again.

The floor is once again disgusting, but I will not sweep it again! I will not! It's a waste of time, he's just going to eat again in a few hours.

During naptime/quiet time, I end up stepping on a corn chip or froot loop. This is very gross, yes, but I will not give in yet. However, the floor continues to bug me. I can't make my own lunch with it grossing me out like that. What if someone comes over and sees I live this way? So, once more, I give in and sweep the floor. I don't know why I bother, since an hour or so later...

Afternoon snack time! Back in the high chair, and you guessed it, food on the floor. It's like he has a quota, a certain amount must be on the floor. If I give him half the food, he will just have to eat less, because the sacrifices to the tile gods must be made in full!

Since I learned my lesson during morning playtime, I just go straight for the broom to avoid watching him round up some smushed up string cheese and eat it in an hour. The kids play, the floor is clean, life is good.

Then, dinner time for Peyton while Daniel heads home and I put together dinner for the grown ups and Sam (or sit down feeling crappy and try not to lose it with the kids, depending on how the day is going). Once again, he bails food over the side for the peasant ants who depend on him for their livelihood and revere him as a cult figure who rains manna from the heavens four times a day, but also will vengefully step on them with no provocation.  (This is a joke, we don't really have ants. But it's a miracle we don't) I tell him for the 1000th time, not to do that. By this point, food issues aside, I'm usually pretty much at the end of my rope with the kiddos in general. More often than not, it's been a long day. As soon as Peyton finishes "eating," Daniel walks in the door, says hello to everyone, looks at the floor under our son and says "Wow, how does this floor get so disgusting? We really should sweep it more often." We. Yes, seriously, he says "we." In his defense, he also honestly believes he means "we," because if he were home while Peyton makes the messes, and he would have every intention of sweeping, therefore, "we."  I, however, realize this "we" actually means "me," and get irrationally irritated to a level only a pregnant woman really can.

Fantasy me punches him in the face.

Real me just stomps upstairs in a huff. Sometimes, on the way up, I shout "I swept THREE TIMES TODAY!" Other times, I assume he knows the drill by now and just go. He stays downstairs wondering why I'm always in such a bad mood when he gets home from work (because apparently, he doesn't actually know the drill by now, Mars and Venus, amirite?). I resurface after a few minutes alone, and we manage to have a decent dinner and evening. Someone does the dishes, but I refuse to sweep the floor on principle, waiting for that "we" to kick in and take care of it. Somehow "we" never surfaces. "We" is busy doing evening stuff, sort of like "me" is busy doing daytime stuff.

The next morning, I wake up to a nasty floor, and clip Peyton into his seat for breakfast.

In the background, I swear I hear "The Circle of Life." I can almost picture Rafiki holding up a dustpan reverently.

It may not be a cycle I'm particularly fond of, but it is what it is. I will be so happy when Peyton stops throwing his food overboard.