Updated: Aug 10
There'd be days like...
It starts off with one decision. Just ONE LITTLE DECISION. And that decision is to stay in bed.
Wicked. (Meaning superlative in its optimum goodness).
It is day three of post-daycare-job-I-don't-need-to-wake-up-at-5:30 living, although my internal clock has not completely received the memo. That's okay. We will get there. I have faith. Today, I had pre-determined that I would sleep until 8, meaning I could stay up until midnight reading and downloading new tunes (my version of a great night). Except, at 6:10 am one of my grown offspring decided to turn on the dryer -- my bedroom adjacent -- and I am UP!
So, I do what any responsible adult would do, I turn over and snuggle into the other pillow and let the repetitive rhythm lull me to semi-consciousness. Enter cat.
With his purr at full throttle, he curls around the back of my head, snuggles into the den-like mat of my pillow-draped hair. I push his midsection, into which my hand disappears with all the resistance of a squishing marshmallow. His spine arches and the rest of him flows fluidly into a new but similar position, like the green salad mold from Better off Dead. He is a slime monster, a slug, and he IS NOT GETTING OFF MY HAIR.
My head is not your bed, I chant inside my mind. My hair is not your bed. My brain is caught somewhere between Dr. Seuss and Tom Hanks in Turner & Hooch. I am alert enough to realize that this chant could be turned into a fantastic children's book. Project alert! And now I am awake.
Instead of getting out of bed, I snuggle into the warmth. We've had an unseasonably hot May, and since my house is not air-conditioned, I've been enjoying a cooler reprieve, meaning, I am wearing reading socks (shout out, Indigo!) against the laminate flooring my son and nephew installed and am sleeping under the bed covers. Knowing full-well this is a temporary seasonal condition, I am loving every minute of it. I reach under jelly belly cat and retrieve my cel phone (Why, Sabertooth, why?), and I lie in bed cruising the Internet. Also known as wasting time while in a state of complete relaxation.
When my daughter finally drags me from my nest, I throw on sweats and a sweater, take two minutes in the washroom, and head to the driveway.
The birds who are nesting in the siding of my house -- yes, you read that right -- have beaten me to the car. The evidence is all over my hood. Yesterday, they got the windshield. What's with that?? My son has his truck parked every bit as close to you, why do you keep aiming for the vehicle with actual blue book value? He's the one that wants you dead, not me! I am your lifeline, little birdies, stop shatting on my car!
I get in and we drive away, but I am reading my fifteen year old's non-verbal communication.
"You are going to make me go back, aren't you?" I say.
"No," she says, "I just want..."
"Food?" I interrupt, knowing her well.
"Coffee," she says, "I'm looking for my toonie."
And because she is the youngest, and because, apparently, if she doesn't care if she stunts her growth then neither do I, I snatch the coin from her hand and drive her to the Timmie's drive-thru, knowing full-well this does not constitute good parenting and will make her late for class. She is my fourth child, my second-round of parenting, she gets straight A's by means of her own brain and self-motivation. With all this to brag about, I've long ago stopped caring about punctuality.
We order coffees and I get us a bagel to split (some food must be better than none, right?), and the second it passes from the barista to me, my coffee begins to weep all over my hand. Rivers of brown stain the Camp Day cup like a raging muddy river dividing the fundraising event into East and West sectors. Scalding coffee is now dripping down my fingers, splashing my black sweat pants, puddling into the car's coffee holder where, with no real alternative, I have placed the offending beast of a cup. It sits there sloshing, taunting me with all its caffeinated energy so near and yet so far. Sheena sips hers, unconcerned.
I dump the child at the high school doors, and tell her she is loved, and I drive for home. Turning the corner out of the high school parking lot, I see the business-signage-adorned SUV of my daycare boss driving in front of me. She is headed in the direction of her home, and I know she is just returning from completing my former shift at the daycare. All my morning's adventures have been brought to me by the letter I-Don't-Work-There-Anymore. I follow her until she turns one way and I carry on another.
And I laugh and I laugh.
And the moment I walk in the door of my house, my daughter texts.
"Mom, can you bring me..."
And I am out the door -- child's research in hand.