So there I was. Feeling completely Mom of the Year-ish after successfully moving my son from 3T into 4T clothing. All you non-kid people just skimmed over this sentence without blinking. The rest of you understand why I was fully expecting the equivalent of the Publisher’s Clearing House Prize truck to pull up in my driveway. Some weak soul who just scaled Everest would limp out to hand me a shiny metallic urn-like award and tell me that I had just achieved the greatest accomplishment known to mankind. Switching these kiddos up to the next size is no joke, people. Move aside screaming newborns, this is birth control.
Feeling extraordinarily proud of myself, I snatched up a jacket I had thrown by the closet to put away. I was going to hang it up, close the door, and wash my hands of another season of sorting little outfits. My daughter, however, had other notions. She saw me open the closet door and ran screaming towards her brother’s raincoat (her new garment of choice). She also demanded I get down her backpack and the toy I stashed on the top shelf (because it just has too many tiny pieces and annoys me). I successfully got the jacket hung, but was left with 3x as many other objects now littering my hallway.
It’s the scientific, or Newton’s, or whatever-you-want-to-call-its law: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
For instance, I will somehow magically score a night-out with my husband (remember that guy who is pretty hot and I used to date?), but footing the bill for the sitter will make me sick, and staying up past 9pm really throws my perfected bedtime schedule out of whack.
I give into my daughter’s incessant thumb-sucking (her adorable-for-now, likely panic-inducing-that she’s-weird-when-she’s-5) sign that she is tired and do an early naptime. Come dinner hour, I will be threatening to shoot myself and/or donate our psychotically-tantruming children to scientific research.
I will attempt to answer my 3 yr. old son’s questions about whether pee comes out of his sister’s “giner” (read: “vagina” in toddler-speak), and then have his sweet preschool teacher shoot me unspecified poison darts at pick-up later that week.
I make great gains at emptying the dishwasher. My children will gleefully leap on the clean cups and decide it’s fun to try and “hydrate” the dog. The dog is thrilled.
I go crazy and agree to stay up and watch Mad Men “live” with my husband. I then spend the entirety of Monday thinking college kids with severe hangovers are living the good life. Is it really humanly possible that toddlers can have this much energy?
I forget to charge my Kindle. I hate myself more than a little that I can’t play my beloved anagram game. What is reading?
I take a minute to actually read my devotional and pray in the morning. I then feel slightly more peaceful while screaming at my children to not smear peanut butter on the couch during breakfast.
I check in and comment on one of the blogs I love and just feel slightly more connected with the world. My daughter then wakes up from nap, I remember all the blogs I haven’t visited, all the social media I haven’t played and then feel terrible about myself. Can you please pass a bag for this poopy diaper?
I remember something lovely about my mother who died. I smile, but then ache that she is gone and then try to swallow the lump in my throat while I get the mail and heat up fish sticks. I am a work in progress, dear readers.
It’s life. It’s beautiful. It’s screwed up, and it’s real. Trying to make sense of it makes no sense. Anything you do to try and make it clearer will cause a ripple wave of reaction–that may or may not make things better. Just yank all of the raincoats and backpacks out of the closet, throw them on the kitchen floor, and then meet me for a beer out on the back deck. It’s really getting nice outside and this life is just too darn short. See you in five.
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