Too Tired to Think of a Title

January 31, 2011

From 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., I love my job.  I love folding clothes, I love washing dishes, I love packing us into the car and heading out into the day to see what adventures await.  I love being Juice’s jungle gym, and I love his wildly dramatic protesting at naptime, after which he falls asleep in three minutes flat.  I love the hilarious outfits Moo picks out, I love hearing her insights on life, and I love being whatever character she requests (although I think Daphne the Hotel Clerk is my favorite) while we putter and play around the house.

BUT.  From 7 a.m. to 10 a.m. and from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m., I am not a nice person.  Getting them breakfast and getting myself dressed and presentable seems an insurmountable obstacle.  And OH, mothering would be so much easier if I had very short hair.  But…no.  I shall not sacrifice my locks, no matter how much you whine and cry and interrupt while I just. Try. To dry my damn hair.

And then at 4 p.m. precisely, Juice gets a case of the Crazies, Moo gets sick of me being too tired/busy/frustrated to play, and I am just… TOO.

This evening at 5, it all culminated with Moo ramming into me where I was laying on the carpet as a human Juice Barricade.  She told me that was not where I was supposed to be, I HAD to go to my proper mark as per her direction.  I protested.  She freaked out.  I knew I should do something, or say something, but all I could feel was the exhaustion.  So I said, “Moo, go to your room.”

I have never heard such high-pitched screaming.

She survived.  But then I fell apart trying to feed my furious baby his favorite peas and rice, and when Herbie finally swooped in to save the day, I shuffled into Moo’s room.  She’d fallen asleep in her bed.  I know she had to learn her lesson, and I didn’t regret sending her to her room.  But I hate having those feelings fester between us, and I understood how frustrating it must be to have such a tired and distracted mommy. 

So I kissed her and asked her if I could snuggle with her for a few minutes.  She said yes and scootched over.  I cried a few silent tears into her wispy bangs and kissed her forehead five times.  Then I listened to her steady breathing and dozed off with our foreheads touching.  Ten minutes later, I pulled myself up and whispered that dinner would be ready soon.  I felt whole again. 

Over dinner, I found out she didn’t remember me being there at all.  She told me she was crying because she and Hop could not understand why I wasn’t being nice to the director.  After I explained to her that even grown-up directors say “please” when they tell people where to stand, we ate our “stewp,” I kissed my baby’s helmet head, and soon enough the house was niiiiiice and quiet.  I sat at my laptop, my husband came over and hugged me, and I realized that it’s just another day, and everything’s okay. 

And tomorrow, I get to start all over again.

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