Twenty-five Wednesday Moments

#1

Wrapped up kitties, a care bear and a boo boo bear. Gifts from the children.

#2. Basement window. This has been our view, this ruthless, record breaking winter.

I'm hardly responsible for my ugliness these days.

#3. Peeta, the Cat. Surprisingly tolerant. He prefers the outdoors, so it's quite possible his spirit has been broken.

#4. Awesome moment. Hydro guys trimming the branches along the power line. It was like a virtual field trip. Without going out into fields, or braving any trips.

#5. Calliou. With an iron clad will, I keep the tv off from 7:00 - 11:00 AM, while the children run and scream "Ho Ho Ho!", and argue over the bouncy donkey. By 11:00, my nerves are taut. Some discs are considering compressing. I'm sighing deeply to suppress my innate sarcasm and will myself to say things like: "You're such a good friend!" And - "We don't pull hair here, sweet, precious darling, you."

Moments #6 through 14. Leftover mashed potatoes and meatballs for lunch. There's always a kid who says , "joycie? I don't like...." To which I always say- "I don't want to hear about what you don't like. Just find something on your plate and eat it".

The boys walk home from school and nuke leftover burgers. The mustard is almost gone but I work my mom magic to Sam's satisfaction.

I sweep the floor. It is boring and endless and will need to be swept again in one minute. (This adds up to 14 Wednesday moments, the sweeping)

#15. Change the diapers, commence rest time. I lay down on the carpet in a heap of kids, and pull the chenille up to my neck. If I go upstairs to clean up lunch, great partying will spawn, and nary a nap shall be found. So I virtually weigh them down with my ominous presence and some nod off to the sounds of Clifford the Big Red Dog. Unfortunately, we are sometimes visited by that toothy non human, Daniel Cook. Bossy little monster.

#16. Micah comes home, says he is working on a project and needs the computer. I hear him in his bedroom, fishing a light down his vent, attempting a rescue of the iPod that went missing. Yes, we have no vent cover in his room.

#17. We eat fishy crackers and oatmeal cookies for snack. I don't really like fishy crackers, but I toss them into my mouth because I seem to love to torture myself, and must think that eating with awareness is for sissies. Children love fishies more than mashed potatoes. Any food type product that has psychotic orange dye in it looks good to a kid. I don't get it.

#18, 19, 20. Sweep the floor. Change the diapers. Throw in the third load of laundry. (Fascinating and riveting, these 25 moments. They'll be begging for a sequel.)

Commence loud "Ho, Ho, Ho" style of running and yelling. There was a vicious fight over a bent, pink, plastic fork, but I intervened before it became impaled anywhere.

#21: 4:00 to 5:30 PM: Parents arrive and claim their baggage. One is sent home in a borrowed shirt; she pooped up the back of hers. One is missing a bear, so I go on a hunt and retrieve it. Another is crying, too groggy from her nap.

#22. I consider wine. Then reconsider- don't actually want that on top of orange cracker dye. Besides, that'd be my supper, but where would it leave my kids?

I tell Brian I have 2 supper ideas: crepes, or omelettes- hoping that he'll either spring into cooking action or spring into cooking action. Instead he mumbles something about leftover gravy and mashed potatoes. (Nope, cue lunch menu). Then he remembers leftover burgers. (Nope, cue lunch menu). Then he suggests ordering in. I sigh and go start the omelettes. I just bought a $265- vacuum that doesn't suck. And besides, ordering in is just lazy and dumb. You save that for special occasions, or more desperate times.

The children clean up supper while I go downstairs and stare at the wall so they won't see the tears on my cheeks. I'm near the end of myself. And I'm having thoughts of my ageing father, I'm feeling annoyed with my personality, and other's personalities, I want to go out to watch Brian play in a band but it will keep me up late and leave me vulnerable to impatience with the littles. So I stare out at the March snowstorm (this winter hath no mercy) and cry a little, just for release.

#23. Sam cuddles up beside me, wraps his arms around me, holds on. Says; "I hope you have a better day tomorrow, mom. I love you mom." (Having a rough time? Get yourself an eleven year old Sam.)

#24. Jane comes downstairs to tell me her evening plans. Says; "Are you okay?" I tell her I'm thinking about grandpa, that I'm weary, that sometimes I just need a little cry. She sits beside me. Wraps her arms around me, says, "I get that. I love you, mom".

#25. Twenty-five more days until I fly to Cancun. Wear a strappy dress and flip flops. Breathe air that doesn't make my throat feel like the Mojave Desert or make my skin hurt. See the cotis wander past my beach chair. Read a book. Hear my own thoughts. Twenty-five more sleeps curled into Brian's heat, whining about my ice cold feet.

Twenty-five.

 

Posted with Blogsy