It seems like I've always done what I've been doing forever, and will continue to the same thing ad nauseum, marching through my standard routines throughout the rest of time.
This isn't true, though. The current rut I'm in replaced a previous rut, and is just a link in a chain of ruts that changed a little from ruts preceding, dating back to when I was 5 years old, playing with little plastic Army men and picking my nose and wiping it on the Spider-Man poster above my bed.
With that in mind I will record my current weekday rut in the interest of looking back on it one day and realizing how much everything's changed.
6:30 a.m. - 1-year-old Emma announces the new day by screaming until I lumber out of bed and pull her out of the crib. I unzip her zip-able sleep blanket and bounce her around until she snaps out of her horror and starts pointing at various objects, saying "this," asking me what each is called. I resume a Netflix I'd watched half of the night before, then I take her outside and grab the newspaper, come back inside and strap her into her high chair, dumping a handful of Cheerios and slicing 3/4 of a banana onto her tray. As I swallow my multivitamin and proceed to shovel Cinnamon Toast Crunch into my mouth, she eats some of her meal, tossing the rest of it to the ground.
6:45 a.m. - 3-year-old Luke emerges bleary-eyed from his bedroom. I hug him and say "I'm so glad you're awake!" He responds "I'm so glad you're awake, too," and asks if he can watch a show. I turn him down and microwave a frozen Costco breakfast sandwich for him, plopping the food on the counter along with a glass of milk and two Marvel heroes chewable vitamins.
7:05 - I tell Luke it's time to go wake up Mommy. He runs into our room and pounces onto the bed until Jessica wakes up. I give her a 30-second status update on the kids and shave and shower.
7:18 - I play with Luke and Emma as Jessica eats breakfast before I head off to work at 7:21.
8-4 - I zone out and crank out news stories at the Arizona Daily Star. Lunch is either Chef Boyardee ravioli or Banquet pizza & pudding, with the occasional run to Carl's Jr. for a Six Dollar Burger thrown in to keep me sane.
4:25 - I return home to Luke hiding behind the entryway to the living room, and I pretend to be scared. Emma claps and jumps into my arms. I give Jessica some free time to exercise or take a nap, handing Emma a stick of string cheese and Luke a packet of fruit snacks. When Jessica is finished, I either run or watch the kids as she makes dinner.
6:45 - After we eat, I make a bubble bath for Luke and Emma, then sit with them as they splash around and I read Sports Illustrated, Newsweek or Game Informer. If I'm done with my magazines I beg off and get Jessica to sit with them while I play a few minutes of whatever video game is tormenting me at the moment. After the bath, I dress one kid, Jessica handles the other and we sit down together to watch something on TV of Luke's choosing.
7:15 - I brush Luke's teeth as Jessica brushes Emma's. Then I read Luke a story. Most often it's something from this big Disney treasury book that has a bunch of capsulized, 10-page summaries of an assortment of animated Disney movies from the last 15 years. His favorite is the worst of the bunch -- Chicken Little. I always ask him if he wants to read Dr. Seuss's "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" -- which I never get sick of -- but most of the time he turns me down. After the story, Jessica puts Emma to bed and says prayers with Luke and talks about his day as I fire up the laptop.
7:30 - I check my email and power through my Google Reader, then start writing my Consumerist posts. Jessica either plays around on her computer as I watch a Netflix or sits besides me and watches one of the 400,000 shows she has saved up on DVR.
9 - Jessica and I lie in bed and talk about stuff for somewhere between half an hour and 90 minutes.
2-4 a.m. - One of a number potential emergencies yanks me out of bed. Emma will wake up crying, or Luke will amble out of bed shouting "Daddy, clean me!" because he's peed his bed, which happens a little less than half the time -- gradually decreasing as the boy garners nighttime control of his bladder. After I put out the fire -- the Luke peeing instance is the more arduous, requiring me to strip him down, wipe the urine off him with wet wipes, re-clothe him, start a load of laundry with the soiled clothes and bed sheets, then put him back to bed. I use the late-night wake-up to finish up my Consumerist stuff and bang out a Becauseitoldyouso post, all while watching Netflix or stuff I've got saved on the DVR. When I finish my writing, I drift back to sleep until Emma's thundering roar ushers in a new day.