I’ve found that when your day seems to go at 100mph, the wall you hit when you finally stop for the night hurts 10 times worse. Since school started I’ve been going zero to 500 every morning. From the moment that Bug wakes up (which is at 6:15am every single morning, thank-you-very-much) until I sit down at night to “relax”. It’s go, go, go, go. Get up out of bed; fight the dogs to get the door open, the alarm off and the back door unlocked to let them out. And since Mr. Incredible comes to lock my doors at night after I’ve already locked them, they are suddenly impossible to open and I’ve got a wiggly Bug and 3 yipping, I-really-need-to-pee dogs at my feet. Once that feat is accomplished it’s time to wake the
monsters darling sweet children of mine. Monkey Man usually gets up on his own and is happy as long as his Mighty Morphin Power Rangers™ fix is satiated. Bean always jumps up out of bed. One day she’s going to hit the ceiling, I just know it. It’s always as if some giant gong has gone off as soon as I turn the handle on her door. (Giant gong, now that would be funny. I should look into getting one of those). She literally screams “AHHH!” and jumps up off the mattress. But that, while incredibly funny, is nothing compared to going into the dragon’s lair. Waking Peanut up is like poking a hungry lion. Or a raging bull. Or a mad rhino. You get the idea. Now, Clark just marches up there, grabs Peanut, throws her over his shoulder and brings her downstairs. Kicking and screaming all the way. I try a different approach. I ask her to get up. Nicely. I try singing my obnoxious morning song (my mom sang it to me). I try rubbing her back, hugging her. You know. All those great motherly sweet things that June Cleaver and Carol Brady did. No way. None of it works. She is just a bear. A really, really grouchy bear. And it’s every single time too. Always a treat. And before I’ve had my coffee. I love that. Why don’t we all try that tomorrow? Act like a grouchy bear. It can be “Act Like a Grouchy Bear Day”. Sounds fun. Kent
Anyway, after all that goes down, and the fight to get dressed goes on, I go about the morning. Assure everyone has gone to the bathroom, dressed, had their teeth and hair brushed, and the boys are fed. Monkey Man and Bug eat breakfast at home. Peanut and Bean get a nice, hot, free breakfast at school. Saves me time, they enjoy it, and it’s free. Did I mention it’s free? Yeah, free. I like that. After dressing and grooming is making lunches. And shoes. Shoes are always a fight here because, honestly, they have too many choices. And then of course as we are getting ready to walk out the door I realize I am not fit for the public. We walk, up to the school. So, needless to say, I am never dressed for that. So I throw on something less … embarrassing … pajama-y … old? Anyway, and we’re out the door.
We walk to school, get home, do the chores, play, have lunch, nap time (more cleaning for me. Although I’m of the mind that we should all have nap time. The whole country. Latin countries do it. Some European countries do it. We should do it. Shut everything down for an hour or two in the afternoon and just relax. Sleep. Whatever that isn’t work.). Then it’s back to school, pick the girls up, and back home for homework. Which is torture for everyone. No one wants to do homework. No child ever wants to. Well, some children do. There are a few who love it. But Peanut and Bean are not those children. Those children live in a fantasy story that isn’t my life. So we fight through homework, get ready for whatever extracurricular we have that night, and then dinner, baths, and bed. Then I sit down. And deflate. I sink into the couch and can’t move. Hence the giant space between my posts. Last thing I ever think about most nights is “ooh, look how my day went, let me write it all down.” But I should. I feel better. And I can pretend that everyone really, really cares about the mundaneness of my day. Because I know you do. You sit there and think “how on earth does that crazy lady do it?” and “why the heck does anyone have 4 kids anyway?” and “does she ever eat?” or “wow, she’s absolutely bonkers, I feel much better about my life.” So, as I hit the brakes and sit down for the day, recap on everything I didn’t accomplish that I should and listen to the hum of the dishwasher, I think that 100mph isn’t such a horrible speed. And one day, when I’m sitting alone waiting for my grandkids to call, it will seem like the 100mph days were only a blink ago. And as the country song says, don’t blink.