I want my day to go like this. Up by 6 (am). Half and hour or so to work out. Something. A walk. Some weights. Anything. Dressed and ready to roll by 8 or so. Coffee with the Colonel. And then 30-45 minutes of writing. By then, the children would be up. I could do some laundry while they make their beds, get dressed, choose a topic with which they can start the day arguing. By 9:30ish, we would have all eaten, the kitchen would be cleaned up. By 10ish, we could get going on some schooling. Children would entertain themselves or work independently for a couple of hours, while I roam the house straightening and interjecting any necessary aide for say, oh, a math problem, or difficult word. By noon, we’d be done. Lunch would be served. And it’d be something other than peanut butter and fritos. And I’d start dinner then, or at least figure out what dinner would be. And then we’d have the afternoon to craft, field trip, read alound, visit the elderly, my grandparents, or friends. Bake something. Quilt something. Paint the hall together in familial bliss. I’d break by 4:30 to make sure dinner would be on the table at 6, and we could all sit togther in civility, sharing our exploits of the day. Taking turns. Respecting each other. And following this idyllic setting, the Colonel and I would lovingly help the Privates to their rooms, jammies, brushing teeth, and read some stories before lights out at 8:30. Then we’d have time alone. In a clean home. To sit. Talk. Sneak upstairs for a little nookie. And still be asleep by 11, so we could start the day fresh tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be nice? Isn’t it possible? Don’t other women manage this?
Today. Vaguely remember the Colonel leaving for work sometime around 8. Next awareness is bolting upright and sprinting down the stairs at nearly 9:30, eye shade askew over my head and ear plugs still in, beckoned by an earsplitting scream, and mowing down Private 2 and she tries to explain why Private 3 is convulsing in sobs in a heap in the kitchen. He fell off a stool. Bumped his head. Why? Something to do with Private 2 was tossing a ball around in the kitchen while I slumbered unaware upstairs. We are not supposed to toss a ball around in the kitchen. But what can I say? My head was under my pillow. Private 3 and I snuggle on the sofa while my heart attempts to find a more peaceful resting rate than 145 beats per minute, and I remember we’re nearly out of coffee. An organized mom would have known that. Prepared. Had one stashed in the freezer. Made an ongoing needs list for the grocery. Not me. No siree. I’m living on the fly.
Children begin to beg for food. I make weak coffee. Private One appears to see what all the ruckus was about, and then lumbers back to bed. Instant oatmeal. Corn Squares. Sit. Eat. Be quiet. Mommy’s not awake yet. Reminders to do chores. While I run back and forth from this computer getting my fix in for the day. Anxiety rising as the children have the gall to ask for more. Please, mum, might we have another portion of gruel? Might we? Growl. After this paragraph. I’m not awake yet. Private 2’s maternal, or just sympathetic, instincts kick in. She starts doling out oatmeal. Cereal. Strawberries. Then I feel bad. It is now 11:00. Isn’t this my chosen role? My God-given blessing and responsibility? Can’t I do better than this? Get a plan and stick to it? Not feel quite so much like I’m always chasing the tiger’s tail. I’m barking some manners to the children from the laptop. Did you ask to be excused? Don’t you get down until you ask to be excused. No. No more berries till you eat some more oatmeal. As if I’m conveying the proper way to have a meal. From the computer as I chug weak coffee. Would you wash some more strawberries for your brother? I ask my daughter. Yeah. Give her my jobs. Then I can just sit here all day. In my jammies. Which I’m still in. Disgraceful, I’m sure. This won’t be causing any future therapy. Um, well, my mother? Um, she loved us, I know. But what I remember mostly is the top of her head. And a laptop. And if it was after 5, a wine glass. And the fact that I had complete responsibility of the house by the time I was 10. I practically raised my little brother. My older brother? He just took off when he was 17. Figured he’d do better on his own. If he got a job, buy enough underwear to always have a clean pair.
From here, I’ll finish this little self-incriminating rant, fold and swap some laundry, get my clothes on, and get Private 1 to Karate by 1. Then we’ll get home, I’ll try to see what is in the house to cook, and the end of the day we’ll begin. The Colonel will arrive home. Get mauled by the children and dog. And I may or may not have been able to start supper. We’ll eat by 7, if we’re lucky, hurry to get the children ready for bed, let them watch American Idol if it’s on, drink some wine, collapse on the sofa, see what else is on our new Dish Network, like Project Runway, King of Queens or M*A*S*H* reruns, get sleepy, drag ourselves up the stairs to bed. Be snoring in .8 seconds, and start again the next day. Feeling behind because I didn’t discipline myself or have the energy to assess my upcoming day before I fell asleep.
Alright. 11:32. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet, other than this nasty coffee. 2 mugs. If I don’t stop now, we’ll be late for Karate. There has to be a better way. Anyone? Anyone?
