It’s 6:30 am.
Even before I sluggishly peel my eyelids open, I can hear
them.
The screams radiate through the floorboards into my bedroom,
abruptly ending the serenity of the dream I was having. I hear their little feet slamming onto the
floor of the living room as they practice “flying.” It always amazes me how a person who weighs
the same as my cat can sound like a nuclear war.
As I slowly open my eyes I suddenly choke back a scream as they are met with another pair only one inch away. They belong to the three year old, who has
been standing there silently, staring at me while I sleep. As I struggle to regulate my heart rate he
smiles sweetly at me and holds up his ten pound, completely saturated diaper.
“I go potty mommy,” he says, and runs out of the room. I wince, thinking of what this might mean. Stumbling into the hallway, I stop to open
the door to the baby’s room and get hit instantly by a wall of vile odor.
After changing her, I walk to the bathroom and slowly push
open the door. I swear I can hear horror
movie music as I take in the scene before me.
He had gone potty all right – everywhere but in the actual potty (how in
the name of gravity did he get the ceiling??).
Not able to face it, I close the door and head downstairs. It will still
be there after breakfast.
In the kitchen – the door to the fridge hangs open. A carton of milk lies on its side on the
floor, the white liquid stretching the entire length of the room. Grabbing a dirty towel from the pile of
clothes the hubby seemed to think would add to the decor of our counter top, I
mop it up and throw the dripping mess in the sink. Of course there isn’t a drop left for the now
screaming baby who must have her milk in the morning or someone will die – so I
desperately grab for the half and half and add another half – of water (so that chemistry class comes in handy after all!). She sucks it down and ploughs into the banana
I carelessly throw onto her tray.
I quickly see the other three have already had their
breakfast – gazing upon the empty yogurt tubes on the rug, blueberries ground
into the couch cushions, and an entire box of cheerios piled in the center of
the floor of the living room.
After everyone has had second breakfast, I am finally able
to feed myself. Feeling my blood sugar
rising, I decide to get crazy and fill up the kiddie pool. I turn on the hose, go back inside to free
the baby from her highchair, and suddenly feel a blast of arctic water spraying
my backside. Spinning around, I see that
the five year old has brought the hose into the house and is now turning the
dining room into Sea World. Screaming, I
force him back outside and manage to turn it off, crying out in exasperation the only word I can manage –
"WHY??? "
His reply -- “I wanted to tell you the water was too cold.”
After two hours of splashing, screaming, crying, slipping,
and yet one more bowel movement (I knew I should have put that swimmy diaper
on!), I dry them, dress them, and begin the marathon that is lunch. Afterwards I carry their squirming little
bodies up to take a nap, screaming all the way.
(Why is it always such a shock to them every day that they have to take
a nap?)
When they are finally silent, I thoroughly clean up
every single mess that has been made in all sixteen-hundred square feet of the house. When that is done I decide to put my feet up
for just a few minutes. As soon as I
melt into the couch and my eyes close, I hear the pitter patter of little feet
thundering down the stairs joyfully and realize it has been two hours – so much
for that….
They play happily right up until their father comes home
from work, which for some strange reason seems to be their cue to transform
into hell monkeys.
After the original dinner is served and pushed aside, fed to
the dog, watered with tears of agony, and regurgitated back up (what is so
God-awful about meatballs??), they eat their peanut butter sandwiches and get
thrown around the room by daddy for a while.
Now begins the bath circus, the naked kid parade, and the
boxing match over what story to read.
Then they jump around the room for an hour while the hubby and I fold
the Mt.Vesuvius of laundry on our bed.
It’s 11:30 pm.
Silence.
I gleefully jump into bed, fight back tears of joy as my head
feels the sweet coolness of the pillow and take in the sweet aroma of fabric
softener. The soft warm blankets get
pulled up to my chin; the hum of the air conditioner begins to lull me back to
dreamland.
And that’s when I open my eyes one last time and receive a
jolt as I see those same big brown eyes staring happily into mine. “Mommy…I go potty again!!”
*Sigh*
