I enjoy sitting down in the morning. I enjoy drinking coffee through the day and I enjoy quiet times of reflection. As an adult these are my rites of passage.
I worry about bills, education and the environment. I pay homage by enduring the evening news and shaking my head at the travesty. I enjoy the consumption of a novel and staying up later than appropriate time allotments for reading. My head drops to the side in mid sentence at a perfectly regrettable hour of the morning.
I love to let the characters seep into my soul and let the story absorb so deeply that I will not rest until I finish a chapter, or the entire book so that I can end the wanting.
By day I exist in a world where I am never alone with my thoughts and my mind is kept from silently wandering off. I never get to fully explore my passion for sitting down and my love of coffee keeps me going, but hardly fulfills me.
Because I am a mom. And my kids are sometimes my passion, and sometimes my bane, but they are always my responsibility.
There is more than a fair amount of struggle for my attention. I have two boys. Two wrestling, fighting, punching, kicking, pulling, yelling, screaming boys. The competition is endless, if it’s toys or space or people, they are vying for it and they will kill each other in a Greco-Roman death match if no referee is present.
When any new baby enters a family the jealousy isn’t always instantaneous outrage, rather it gradually seethes and becomes palpable, and the child in need of the most love is often revealed by their behavior. The survival of the fittest has just amped my household up to a god damn eleven. The baby is cute, it’s no wonder they feel suffocated by her presence. Look at her, she’s like a double rainbow.
If I go pee, they follow me into the bathroom and sit on the floor.
Should I need to evacuate the bowels and lock the bathroom door, they either bang on it, break vases over each others heads or go completely, terrifyingly silent.
The silence is a good indication that I will be opening the bathroom door to a painted floor or a kitchen doused in flour.
If I nurse the baby, which I do often because I hear she needs it to live, the children will climb on my head in a sudden gripping need to “snuggle” my brains out.
It got slightly less adorable when his big brother decided to make mush out of my ears by slamming on the untuned piano keys next to my head.
Things then became downright annoying when my toddler jumped off of my lap and ran across the room to redecorate.
And then the toddler was decidedly parched after his adventure, so he ran to the dining room table, climbed atop it and smashed my water glass into shards.
It’s obviously time for a break, any foreman on the job would have stopped for coffee by now. Because coffee is my savior and my day can only be improved with extra caffeine, but it’s a false prophet. I should have made a martini.
Because while I may have the calmness of a chilled iced coffee in my hand my toddler has taken the opportunity to break into the dry goods and start some early dinner prep. Your honor, Exhibit 35 C.
And then while I grab the broom to sweep up the mess, he excuses himself to go outside.
And grab a sword to beat me to hell with while I sweep. This is the worst version of Snow White. They don’t poison my apples but they do steal them from my mouth, take one bite and discard them on the floor.
Thankfully it’s nap time and I have a few sacred minutes to plan my funeral. If you don’t hear from me soon, tell the investigators to look under the kiddie pool in the backyard. I plan on hiding there with a bottle of Vodka for the next Ten years.