I remember when my parents bought their first laptop when I was ten. My favorite thing was Notepad where I would painstakingly type with my two index fingers. My first efforts of writing life onto computer screen. I thought, "If I am bored, I will write. And my life that I write will be an interesting one."
Who would have guessed 15 years later... still committed.
This is my life during the in-between. Staying at my parents. Not quite moved out of our place, not at all moved into our new place. Transition [sucks].
But life is interesting. Even in all the mundanities. Get up to little men demanding breakfast (in a cute, tousled blonde hair kind of way, even if it sounds like nails on a chalk board some mornings). The big man already long gone to work. Missed already. Get bottle ready for freshly weaned babe. Freshly weaned babe who does not like to wait for his milk. Change diaper. Sometimes a poopy one. Beg big brother to please use the bathroom. Yes, I know you peed last night. Go again. Sometimes I'm lucky and the poop diaper comes after my usual morning nausea (and no, I am not pregnant). Make breakfast for three. (Sometimes just two. Sometimes eating takes too much effort. I think I used to be a morning person. I can't remember.) Turn on cartoon for the child who is already waiting in front of the computer (or rather watch in amazement how he navigates Netflix himself so effortlessly). Somewhere in there I make coffee. Have some one-on-one time with the little dude, who likes to put small things in his mouth and play with potentially hazardous objects, who laughs and claps most adorably, and pulls my hair in what I think may be affection (maybe I hope). Eventually finish my no longer (even slightly) warm coffee. Enjoy it anyway. Turn off cartoon. Get exasperated by the fit that is thrown daily. Think about quitting the morning TV ritual. Know I don't have it in me just yet. Know tomorrow will be the same. Take the boys outside. Play for awhile. Get eaten alive by mosquitoes. Almost die of heat stroke. Drenched. Regardless if we play in the hose or not. It's so damn hot. I repeat those words daily. Sometimes hourly. Think about how I need to watch my mouth in front of the big boy. Think about how many times he repeats things. Think about how embarrassing it is when he does it in front of other people. Remind myself this happens to everyone. Think back to the days I got my mouth washed out with soap. Realize I can still taste it. Drink water. Wish I was drinking coffee. Wish coffee was more hydrating instead of a diarrhetic. Justify coffee obsession to myself. Realize I no longer breastfeed. Think dreamily about the next cup I will enjoy during small ones' nap times. Hope desperately they fall at the same time. Realize it's lunch. Make lunch. Or let my mom make lunch. Get on facebook (again), transfer pictures to Instagram. Instagram everything. Feel lame. Justify my lameness with the "transition" excuse. Keep doing the things that make me feel lame. Keep feeling lame. Know it's a vicious cycle. Know it will end. One day. Hope it will end sooner than later. But not yet. Realize it's nap time. Dance in my head. Fantasize about all I will do in my free time as I rock the little one and lay him down. Spend one-on-one time with the big kid, who I realize is still quite small. Nap time for little-big kid. Fantasize about coffee as I drag the screaming one upstairs. And as I read the same two stories over again. And sing the same song. Again. Remind myself to get more books next time I am home. Remind myself I will miss these moments. Kiss sweet heads. Enjoy. Enjoy. Then run. Run to the bathroom. Ask myself, How long have I been holding this? Remind myself to boil water for coffee. Get a snack. Tell child to go back to bed. No it is not time to get up. Last time I checked nap time lasts a little longer than 30 seconds, dude. Grab book. Grab computer. Debate about what to do next. Toss book aside. Facebook. Instagram. Lameness. Decide to write. Sometimes. Other times just sit there like a dumby. Tell child to go back to bed. Sometimes watch Lost. Tell child to get back in bed or so help me. Sometimes get to finish Lost episode. Feel sad, or sick, or intrigued, depending on the episode. Beg child to please, please go back to bed. More facebook. Realize you can't "like" someone's "like". Feel lame again. Realize I should just get used to feeling lame. For awhile anyway. Bribe child to return to bed. Feel bad about bribing. Feel like a failure of a mother. Feel sad that my kids will grow up to be under achievers who hate me. Remember my childhood. Remember, God is good. Feel better about the possibilities of my children's futures. Instagram my feet. Delete picture. That's lame, Faith. Too lame. Hear tiny one in the baby monitor. Be sad for a moment before realizing I like that kid and facebook is lame. Move on. Get kids, all smiling, so happy to be rested and free from their cages. Feel like a liberator. Feel good. Realize I never made that second cup of coffee.
The rest of the day is a blur. There is more playing. Sweating. Facebook. Plenty of Instagram. A little more feeling lame. Dinner. The big man comes home. Relief. Stinky hugs that are now so very, very sweet to me. Strong arms. Prickly kisses. Lots of wrestling on the foor, while I sit on the couch content in laziness. Make fun of husband for being tired after only 10 hours of working in ungodly heat. Feel bad. But not really. He knows it's foreplay [insert New Zealand accent here and receive high-five if reference is recognized]. Or so we hope. Bed time. So tired. Your turn. No your turn. Always ends up being both of our turns. Darkness falls. Last kid finally sleeps. Or at least quiet. Finally alone. Look at nails. Think about painting them. Laugh at myself. Talk till way too late with large sexy beast. More if we're lucky. Sleep. Phone beeps. Instagram alert. Someone thinks my life looks good. Success. Silence phone. Sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment