She Slid Off that Mountaintop

I admit its been a tough transition; this business of the weekend being over and the tiny minions reinvading my house like its their right to tromple all over it, glancing at me as their appointed eager handmaiden bearing cups of cold water and hot sandwhiches on plates.  I've been trying to comfort myself with endless miniature pots of strong coffee, pinterest indulgences, the reading and rereading of favorite e-mails, the loss of myself in another book.  (Anne Lamott;  Imperfect Birds)

The littles are adorable with their ringlets bouncing, toddling around with tall entirely breakable drinking glasses they find on the coffee table from my own darlings' late night ice tea indulgences (grrrrr).  They destroy the box that the game is supposed to hold, chatter endlessly while their banana bread falls out of the sides of their mouths in globby slobbering remnants.  They pee on the bathroom floor because it was so much fun to splash in the water that the sink holds, they quite forgot why they'd entered the room in the first place.  They poop their pants, spank one another, and endlessly lap around the carpet, onto the couch, over its side, back to the carpet... until I sigh because I quite like that couch- with its wide vintage armrests, its retro floral designs, its sturdy cushions.  It's held up perfectly for all those years, and now its dissolving before my very eyes.  It doesn't matter that I patiently remind them that I have a trampoline.  Its buried now in the backyard, in this impossible winter, and we won't see the likes of it in month upon freezing month from now.

I've been supplementing myself with almonds and raisins.  Crunchy, delicious, chewy and sweet.  I don't share.  I eat in secret- this thing I reserve for myself and will not surrender.

Sometimes I straighten out the living room to cheer myself up.  Reposition the yellow and teal table cloth, push the chairs back, vacuum under the couch.

They love that.  Its perfect for un-re-arranging, dumping the "Arthur Game" pieces behind the cushions on the couch, ripping the table cloth off and making it into a tent.

I want to feed myself Peek Freans and granola from Costco, microwave chai tea concentrate and soy milk in oversized mugs.... And nap.  I want to scream into my pillow, keep a clean house, enjoy some solitude.

Sweeping up under the table for the gazillionth time, I vaguely remember summertime, when we snack on the deck, letting our crumbs fall where they may.  I remember walks to the slide, picnics in the backyard, a hose and a sprinkler.

Worse yet, I remember Saturday- full of women who questioned but not in whiney, demanding ways.  Who never left poop fingerprints on my fabric, or said; "I don't like that" to everything I put together.  I remember my brain and body and soul being completely alive in its every part.  I remember the zero meals that I put together, the zero times I vacuumed, and I remember that when someone cried, I usually wept along with them.  It that it was the kind of crying that made your soul feel like it was getting a clean spring shower.

I'm having a bit of a hard time transitioning back to real life.  And I think I understand it, and am trying to be kind to myself about it.  I think I have a picture in my head of that perfect day juxtapositioned against the messiness of ordinary, mundande, endless living.

I'd like to wrap it all up with something really inspired about carrying that goodness into my mess, because that's what I'm hoping to do.

But its just not coming together just yet.  It's a bit of a tough transition.