Sunday, May 14th. 2017. 7:05 AM. My alarm goes off – my 1,5 yr old son, henceforth to be referred to as Thing 2. I can barely open my eyes, I’m so tired. Perhaps because this is my second unsolicited wake-up call for the day. The first was sometime after 3 AM. This has been going on for the past two weeks and I’ve basically given up on the fact that he’ll go back to sleeping through the night. Sleeping in hasn’t been a thing for me since 2013 anyhow, so I have grown accustomed to minimal rest, I’m sad to say.
So I wake up and go through the morning rituals. Chromecast Thing 2’s favourite YouTube videos to the tv so I get 15 more minutes of shut-eye (that’s just me with my eyes shut listening to his every move), until he decides I’ve lazied about long enough. Then it’s a quick diaper change, and we go down to get him some milk and play until Thing 1 (big bro – 3+ years) wakes up and decides to join the chaos, or better said, bring the chaos, because he is just all over the place.
Breakfast, play, diaper change, play, more diaper change, fight, play, meltdown (everyone gets a turn) and more play. I say play, but it’s more like ‘mess up whatever mom is trying to put away/ clean up’, which seems to bring them loads of joy and entertainment, much to my chagrin.
Eventually, around 11, my husband of five years graces us with his presence. He gives each of the boys a kiss on the forehead, and, almost as an afterthought, he gives me one as well. I resist the tremendous urge to punch him in the throat, seeing as how him being awake and present gives me a little more leeway to tidy up.
After doing the dishes, I step out to throw away the biohazardous waste that my two little captors have produced since waking up. “Happy Mother’s Day”. That’s my cheery neighbour. I’ve just spent four hours in the trenches doing battle with my two little terrors, and already preparing myself mentally for when I have to go back in, so I don’t really register what she says. I hear myself auto-replying “You too”, hoping it sounded at least half as cheery as she did, because I just don’t have it in me to go full-blown fake-happy at the moment. Then it dawns on me, oh yeah, it’s mother’s day. Too late. “Did you forget?”, she asks. “Yeah, just another regular Sunday here”, I say laughingly as I rush back inside, hoping that didn’t come off as bitter, but then again, not having the energy to really care whether it did or not.
As I make my way to the kitchen, I avoid making eye contact with my husband, for fear I won’t be able to stop myself from throttling him with one of the many stuffed animals laying about. I also neglect to mention that our neighbour just gave me another reason to be mad at him. Not that I was expecting gifts; I knew what I was getting into when I married him. And the kids are still too young to guilt into pampering me. But the least he could have done was give me one day – 1 DAY – to sleep in. I think I’ve earned it after all the sleepless nights, all the breastfeeding, all the refereeing. Not asking for much, just one extra hour. Not an afterthought kiss on the forehead. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. Till death do us part. Till death do us part. Thats my go-to mantra when I’m particularly upset. It calms me for some reason.
Tie my tubes already!
Oh yeah, happy mother’s day. MumbleMumbleGrumbleGrumble
*If you enjoyed this post, check out more nonfiction here.*