Three a.m.
I wake up spontaneously. Stare at the clock. When I'm writing the first draft of something, I leap up, but this week I'm
on an edit, so I roll over and go back to sleep.
Five a.m.
Something nudges me testing
the receptiveness of an early morning probe. I slap it down. Any minute a teenager will
poke his head in asking for gas money.
Five-thirty.
Two-year-old Jonathan calls
from his bedroom. "Mommmmeee. Mommmmeee.."
I get up. Bang on the bathroom door. One of the teenage boys is in there counting
zits or applying toilet paper to tiny nicks. I try to see through the half inch hole made by the broom handle when
they tried that Bruce Lee trick. It just
looks dark in there. "Do you have
the light off?" I ask.
"Mom, there are laws
against peeping." he says.
"You're gonna think
peeping when I remove the door so I can get
INTHEREWHENIWANTTO!"
I rescue the toddler from the
crib. Never mind he could scale his way
out with a bottle in one hand at ten months. When you're two, you have to be lifted up...but only when you ask to
be. Never in busy parking lots, on fast
escalators, or in clothing stores that have lots of low-hanging racks on which to swing.
I start coffee.
Six-fifteen.
The three high school boys
head out the door. They holler afternoon
schedules over their shoulders. I remind
them not to say "pissed off" even if they are. Their expressions remind me I'm so lame.
Four middle-sized kids crunch
through bowls of cereal.
I pour the two-year-old a cup
of juice. Put on Lion King. Throw in a load of laundry. Go back to the
bathroom. Occupied. In my nicest shrill-evil-mother voice I demand
she vacate.
"I'm washing my
hair," she hollers back.
"Mommmeeee... Go-go." The two-year old wants to watch Inspector Gadget.
"Earth to ADHD warriors.
Come in please." For some reason,
taking medicine and doing chores is more palatable when children are permitted
to be warriors, monsters or ninjas with nineteen syllable names they can
pronounce perfectly, despite not being able to utter "please” at the
dinner table.
I dole out Concerta and
Wellbutrin to ensure two children will make it through the school day. Sign my daughter's behavior sheet for Special
Ed. Brush hair out her beautiful eyes. She shakes it back.
I race to the bathroom. Vacancy! I pee. The two-year-old bangs on the door.
"Mommmeee... Ayee."
Alice in Wonderland. Not the cartoon, the one with Whoopee
Goldberg as the Cheshire Cat. Two-year-olds have trouble deciding which movie to open their day with
and hey, if he wants some delusional, drug-induced fairy tale, far be it from
me to stand in his way.
I run upstairs (not upstairs
at all, but a mobile home adjacent to our home) and make sure my
mother-in-law's schedule is in order.
Set her pills out in plain sight so she won't forget to take them.
Six-forty-five.
Hubby gives me the
one-eyebrow waggle. He thinks it's
sexy in a Jack-Nicholson-when-he-was-young-and-virile kinda way.
"That thing gets any
bushier, "I say, "you're gonna need a license
for it."
Seven fifteen.
Eat, children, eat. A child's appetite is inversely proportionate
to the amount of food a parent thinks they might consume. Buy three large deep dish pizzas...nobody's
hungry. Buy one...everyone's starved. My middle-sizers purposely eat slow so they
can slurp the milk from the bowl at the last minute. This despite years of nagging that drinking
from bowls will cause your tongue to lap backward like a dog's.
Seven-thirty.
I lock one dog in the kennel
and two in the back hall. I kick the
four middle-sized kids out the door in
time for them to run up the ¾ mile hill to catch the bus. They have time if nobody starts an
argument. It's a little known fact that the hip
bone is connected to the jaw bone. If
the jaw bone gets going, the hip bone is paralyzed. Some break dancers accommodate for this by
wearing baggy pants that appear to move when they shuffle their feet.
I turn on the computer.
Seven forty-five.
Supervise the two-year-old
making his own toast, so he doesn't dip the knife back in the peanut butter
after licking it. Or electrocute himself.
I let the dogs out of their
respective holding cells. Feed
them. Throw in another load of laundry. Stare at the mound of unfolded laundry from the
day before. Pray for a vision of the Virgin
on my sofa. I'm pretty sure if the
vision was there, the laundry would auto-fold.
The phone rings. A salesman wants to sell me a new
windshield.
I tell him he doesn't sell
the the kind of shield I need. He can't
find the response to that on his super-duper-cold-call-sales-teleprompter card
they gave him, and hangs up on me.
"Mommmmeeeeee. Me-ow."
Cats. Yes! God Bless Andrew Lloyd Webber. I can grab a quick shower. I've got my lather and rinse down to a few
seconds less than the "Jellicle Cats".
Unless it needs a rewind.
I loved reading this. I only have one child, I can only imagne.
ReplyDeleteConsidering my pee schedule ran about 3 am I do recall you are awake and the computer has been on... But still just knowing you juggled our craziness and with a baby/ toddler makes me smile:)
ReplyDeleteIt was work, but it was work I loved, kiddo.
DeleteThis is hilarious. Has Hollywood called and optioned your life rights yet? ;) It sounds like every day's an adventure.
ReplyDeleteOh boy the life of a mum, right? It's a neverending adventure.
ReplyDeleteThat's fun. A great sense of energy. And a bit exhausting!
ReplyDeleteA great read...I was tired by the end, so your message came across! :)
ReplyDeleteOh my gosh! All this by 8 am? I'm not even awake by 8 am! But I was when my kids were young - thanks for reminding me never to wish those days back!
ReplyDeleteLove your retelling of your morning hours. So much work that is so invisible, as all good work is, when it is done well.
ReplyDelete