Superheroes arent stupid

Mom... When you were little what did you want to be when you grew up?

A teacher.

Why aren't you one then?

Hmmmm... I don't know. Good question. I went to college and got my degree so that I could teach. But then I got pregnant with you and decided I wanted to be a mom more than a teacher. Besides I get to teach you guys new things all the time so I guess in some ways I am. What do you want to be when you grow up?

A super hero.

Like Spiderman? Or Batman?

No. I don't want to be somebody else. I want to be me. But a super hero. What do you think? You think I could really be a super hero?

Yes. Of course I do.

Like a real super hero?

I think you can be anything you want to be.

A few days later Aidan comes home from school and says my friend told his dad that we are going to be super heroes when we grow up and his dad told him "that's stupid". Aidan looked genuinely crushed.

Stupid? You know what is stupid? Discouraging anyone from becoming a super hero! Aidan looked confused. Why is that stupid mom?

Why?! What do you mean why?! What kind of world would this be if there were no super heroes?! Hold on lets look up what a super hero is...
noun.                   

1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.

2. a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal:

 

So... your friends dad thinks that it is STUPID to be a man of courage?!  STUPID to be admired for brave deeds and noble qualities?! STUPID to want to be a man who has heroic qualities and performs heroic acts??? I don't see anything stupid about any of that.

 

So maybe you won't sling webs or crawl the walls. You won't wear a cape and tights... which is a good thing anyway because you don't like to wear underwear and a grown man in spandex with no underwear is never a good thing. But you don't have to do any of those things to be a super hero. Super heroes are firefighters who run into burning buildings to save strangers. Super heroes are cops that fight crime. Our service men and women... they are superheroes.  Superheroes are guys like your dad that sacrifice everyday to make sure their family is taken care of. You walk past everyday superheroes all the time and you don't even know it because they don't have a giant S on their chest. Sometimes its the guy that holds the door open for you in the rain, or the...

 

Or the mom that comes to your rescue when you have a bad dream....

 

Yes. Or the mom that will come to your rescue... whether its a bad dream or a bad day... I will always come to your rescue....

 

So don't let anyone tell you that being a superhero is stupid... It's stupid that not everyone wants to be one. I would hate it if it wasn't what you wanted to be. The world will never have enough superheroes... I hope as you get older you remember that. I hope when you are thirty you still just want to be a superhero. A superhero that holds down a paying job with benefits... but a superhero no less.

I am a liar...

Tonight I took Aidan to Barnes and Noble to buy a Halloween book for his book report that is due in 2 days. Yes 2 days and we just bought the book tonight. Then came home and didn't even read it. But before I get to that... while we were at the book store I came across these adorable Anne Geddes baby's first year books. I never filled one out for Seark let alone Rylan. The books were in the bargain bin. They were so cute and at $7.00 who could pass them up. Clearly not me.

Of course after we get home the first thing I need to do is start filling out these books. Seark is 3 1/2 it really could wait another day. But no. Now I have these books and there they are sitting there staring at me. Making me feel like a bad mom for not having filled one out yet. So I put the kids to bed and begin to fill out the book for Seark first.

The first few pages are easy. Moms name. Dads name. Who did you tell first that you were expecting me? Where was I born? On what day? Time? Weight? Easy Peasy. The first time you saw me smile? hmmmm I remember it. Clear as day. It was early in the morning. Seark was laying in bed with me. I was talking to him and tickled just under his chubby little chin and there it was like a ray sunshine his first purposeful beautiful gummy little smile. But how old was he? a few weeks? A month? Gosh I can not remember. So I break out the photos that I just recently got printed and there it is... Seark's first smile. Well his second one.... but the picture was taken only seconds after his first smile so.... close enough. But of course there is no date on the picture and I no longer have the phone or memory card that I took it with but he looks I'd say a month old. So I go back to the book. Fairly confident that Seark was a month old and go to write that... 1 month. But no... the book is asking for a date. I know for sure it was a Saturday morning because Jason was home. Or maybe a Sunday. Definitely a weekend day. Around the one month mark. Break out the calendar... yup must have been June.... Oh my god... am I really making shit up for the sake of filling out this book? Yes. Yes I am. Because who writes guesstimates in there baby's first year book. The only year that you are required to keep a record of dates.... and I didn't do it.

But who cares. I mean in the end the book is really for me. I doubt Seark is ever going to ask for it and be disappointed that it is not entirely accurate. Right? Right. Or wrong. And if wrong will he feel slighted by the lack of information. Oh screw it... June 5, 2011. Moving on.... first laugh? first time I rolled over? First tooth? First time I had food? Shit. Well they must be asking them in somewhat chronological order that these things typically happen... so lets go from there. I turn the page... first bath? What?! He definitely had a bath before his first laugh. And for sure long before he could roll over! What kind of book is this?! Not even a ball park time line?! I skip to the last page. Now that I am one (or 3 1/2) what were the most memorable things about this year... well not the dates. And damn it I feel bad about that. Not tonight but inevitably I will fill out this book even if I have to make it up. And that's what it comes down to... I am a liar.

But why... does the fact that I can not remember the dates make me a bad mom? No. Or at least I hope not. No. No. It doesn't. I sit staring at the blank pages for a few more minutes and decide to put Seark's book on hold for now... maybe some of it will come to me at a later date... unlikely but hey... here's to hoping.

I open Ry's book and get through the first few pages as easily I did Seark's. Then there it is... first smile? First smile. When did Rylan first smile? Oh my god I have to remember this one... it was not even that long ago! I go to my phone. Scroll through 2,793 pictures and aaaaaah there it is. Rylan's first smile. Time stamped October 27, 2013. Well at least I don't have to lie about that one but it's not looking promising for the rest of this book. And so again I might have to be liar...

But a liar is not who am I ... is it? It would be easier and less stressful to just write down the details that I remember about those events instead of the dates. And what is with all the dates anyway?! Who cares the date as long as I do remember that it happened. Whoever made this damn adorable Anne Geddes book... that's who. Well thank god these books were only $7.00 because the anxiety they are causing me may land them in the trash. I will just have to make my own book of baby's first... one that only asks... to the best of your memory!

Why fight it?

You know that feeling.... you are so tired... so so tired... all you can muster up is the ability to stumbling around crying. Falling into the furniture. Wiping snot and tears on the couch cushions with out a care. Grasping for anything with in your reach so you can just scream and throw it on the floor! To then just sit there. Staring in despair at the crap all around you wondering how u find the energy and coordination to step over it. Defeated knowing you just can't, you drag your exhausted body over blocks and cheerios...

You don't know what that feels like? Come to my house around 10 am. That is the time that the daily drama parade begins. When I turn into a complete mess and... oh wait not me... Rylan! Clearly the child is exhausted. Close to passing out. So tired he is delirious. Laughing through tears. I scoop him up as he arches his back and kicks his legs. Arms flailing. He looks at me as if he has been possessed. Mouth wide open ready to chomp down on any exposed flesh. So frustrated with no real way to communicate biting the hand that rocks the cradle seems like a reasonable manner to express yourself. I cautiously rock him while waiting for his head to spin and fire to spontaneously shoot from his bloodshot eyes.

Once he is calm-er and no longer trying to claw my face we settle into his favorite rocking chair. I silently pray that he doesn't tear my nipple off and nurse him as he drifts off to sleep. Aaaaah and there he goes. His rigid limbs go limp. His beautiful blue eyes roll as he tries to keep them open. I rub his soft baby hair and wonder if it is normal that I can still feel his soft spot pulse. How old was Seark when I could no longer feel it?  I will have to google it when I put him down. Or maybe just text his pediatrician. Lost in soft spot uncertainty I don't even notice my precious babe has already nodded off.

The room is 69 degrees. Dark. There is soft classical music playing. I lay him down so gently  on soft sweet smelling muslin Aden & Anais sheets. Cover him in an even softer equally sweet smelling organic bamboo dream blanket that has been freshly sprayed with mommy's bliss lavender mist. The definition of my sleep deprived Heaven.

He looks so content and angelic. I stare for a minute envious of his sleeping situation. Before I even turn to walk away his eye lids fly open. As if he just stuck his finger in a socket he springs up. Shocked. Screaming. Grabbing the bars of the crib and violently shaking them like an angry inmate. I turn and dash towards to the nearest exit. Never making eye contact... knowing if I do I will lose the nap time negotiation.

Rylan always falls back asleep within minutes. Well almost always. For the life of me I will never understand the protest to rest. If at any point someone offers to rock me while stroking my hair in an effort to fall asleep... I will happily take them up on it. I would even pay them to then wrap me in a bamboo blanket. Kill the lights and shut the door. And just leave me alone. I actually spend a good portion of my day fantasizing about that scenario. Often nodding off at the mere possibility.

Ulta-mate fix

If there is one thing that I love aside from my children it would have to be make up... oh yeah and my husband. But I am not writing about him. I love make up. Like crack heads love crack... I love make up. If I were to appear on the show my strange addiction for anything it would be my obsession with eye shadow. So where do make up junkies go to get their fix? The crack house of color other wise known as Ulta.

For weeks I have been meaning to make a trip out to Ulta and have just not had the chance. Finally the day has arrived that I must go. I am out of eye liner... I know... Out?! How could that be?! Thank God my husband is home and I can go alone... although in an emergency such as this I would have dragged all three boys to this high end crack house with me. My boys love Ulta. There are cool little testers to smell just about everywhere you look. They love to spray those tiny pieces of paper until they are dripping with fragrance. And I do actually mean saturated. So they might as well just skip the paper cut out and spray it directly into their eyes. Because that is where it winds up. Aidan has allergies and is always rubbing his eyes. Even after he has doused his hands with perfume. The base of which is alcohol.

If they aren't into the fragrance testers they are painting each other's faces and knocking over carefully placed displays. The girls at Ulta really love children or I am guessing that if any of their pretty painted faces ever has one that they will love it... my kids... not so much. But today I get to go alone. No monster make up faces or freakin fragrance spray fights. Alone. Just me. A quick stop at Starbucks. And Ulta.

I came here for eyeliner. Just eyeliner. One brown eyeliner by Smashbox. And there it is conveniently next to the prettiest shades of lip liner. But I am only here for eyeliner. Just eyeliner. But I am running low on lip liner... so. Okay eyeliner and just one lip liner. I draw little red, pink, and pale lines all over my hand. Debating which color I love. Ruby it is. Which is so odd cause I never wear red but this is the perfect shade. I am not passing it up. There is a little voice in my head saying go pay for this stuff. Just get on line and go pay. Get out of here with these two things. I can't. Because on the way to the register I have to pass the glorious isle of eye shadow. I have all three Urban Decay Naked palettes. I have Benefits Two Faced. More than half a dozen from Clinique. Some Lancome. A little Bobby Brown. I do not actually need eye shadow but Stila has new fall colors in the display case illuminated by florescent light and like a mosquito about to get zapped I am strangely drawn to this  magnetic yet deadly light. I gravitate towards the case prepared to kill the max on my credit card. The colors are quite exquisite and nothing like any of the Naked's. I have to have them. Even at $50 I can not talk myself out of it.

My phone rings.
Hello?
Mommy?
Yes buddy. What's up?
Mommy can you get me modeling clay?
Oh I don't know. It's late. You need to get to bed and I am not at the toy store.
Please.
You just got a toy yesterday. We don't have the money to buy you new things every other day!

Standing there with $40 worth of eye and lip liner in hand and a $50 eye shadow palette I felt like quite the hypocrite. For a brief moment I contemplated putting something back. But what could I part with. I came here for the eye liner so I can not leave with out that. This shade of red is just to die for. Ugh that only leaves Stila. I lean over to place it back on the shelf when my phone rings again. And suddenly I snap out of my mommy guilt.  Why am I putting anything back?! I am at Ulta... alone... for the first time in I can't remember how long! My kids are well fed. Well dressed. Spoiled with toys. Why shouldn't I be a little spoiled too? God I am selfish.

Funny how that works right. Moms do everything and I mean everything for everyone else. I spend my days from the minute I open my eyes not just doing for everyone else but putting them first in everything I do. And never once do I question that. They deserve the best and that is what I want to give them. 100% of my time. 100% of my attention. After giving 100% to everyone else I don't have much left for me. Not even time to sleep. So why do I question whether or not I deserve this or anything for that matter?

And so I left Ulta that night with $200 worth of new make up. Quite the fix. I came home and the kids were already in bed. I washed my face and like a kid with new crayons spent the rest of the night coloring my lips, eyes, cheeks. Almost an hour later I felt like a junkie coming down from my high. Buyers remorse was about to set in. But not tonight... I took one more look in the mirror and decided that it was worth every penny. Good thing I don't get out often alone or we would be living in a card board box with my perfectly painted face.

schizophrenic lesbian

At this point in my life I feel quite schizophrenic at best. I look in the mirror and see this 30 ish year old girl who could still pass for 20 something. Granted later 20 something but still... It's funny when I was young (very young) and wanted to be older I was annoyed by all the "god you look so much younger" comments. At 18 getting carded for cigarettes was seen as a major inconvenience. Now it's disappointing if I walk into a liquor store for wine and they don't want to see my I.D. Well by now me and the guy at the Wine Factory are practically on a first name basis so I guess it would be weird if he kept asking. Anyway although I could pass for younger the fact is I am not. And my 30's seem to be this weird contemplative age for me. I mean not too long ago I was in my 20's. Somehow in your 20's you don't think about becoming 30 or much of anything. In my 20's I still felt very much like I had my whole life ahead of me and 30 which was 10 years in the distance seemed like light years away. Until it was here.

So far my 30's have been good to me. I am fortunate and beyond blessed in too many ways to count. I live in a home I love. With a man that still has my heart. And 3 little people that we have made. The things I dreamed of and planned for are all here. Although I could not be happier that scares me a little. Or a lot. Because what's next? I remember the holidays as a kid. Spending them at my grandparents house with all my cousins. My cousins have all grown up... and apart. Most of them I don't know and for the most part choose not too. My grandparents except for my grandmother on my mother's side have all passed away. Each year there is another face absent for Christmas dinner. The older generation is now my parents who no longer seem old. At all. The circle of life gets clearer and ever more present as the years slip by. And here in my 30's I feel myself longing for the ignorance of my 20's and dreading the arrival of my 40's. Age is indeed just a number. It is the awareness of the ticking clock that changes. As we sit around the table at my house for holiday dinners I realize that we are next in line for being the oldest generation and holy shit is that a scary thought?!

So looking in the mirror at this 30 something year old face with my blondish bob that screams "mom in her 30's" I suddenly had the urge to cut it all off. Cutting my hair was not going to turn back the hands of time or make me younger but that boring blah blonde hair that suddenly made me feel like Kate Gosselin was making me anxious. I mean is this is it?! Am I resigned to dressing. Looking. Acting my age. What the shit does that mean anyway?! As we age are we just to maintain the status quo because we have surpassed the time to live out side the box. Is this blonde bob the last haircut stop on the way to having a standing appointment at the beauty parlor once a week so I can get my thinning hair set in rollers by someone who dreads my appointment because I am an old bitter particular pain in the ass that talks about the weather and my grandkids?! Fuck I need this hair off my head... yesterday! So I call my sister in law in the midst of my quarter life crisis because she is the answer to all hair prayers. I assume she can sense the urgency in my cracking voice as she tells me to come over in 15 minutes. I left her house 3 hours later with an espresso colored faux hawk. And never felt better.

I looked in the mirror when I got home and there it was... the change I needed. A new person looking back at me. Feeling refreshed and slightly less panicked about the future I decided to go out enjoy the rest of this beautiful day. I could not have anticipated the amount of attention this new look would get. To everyone else I looked not just like a new person but.... a gay one. If you did not know cutting your hair short... boy short... is synonymous with being a lesbian. Which quite honestly I don't mind. I like lesbians but it makes for awkward conversation when person after person is calling you one in front of your kids who have no idea what a lesbian is. And over all just an odd thing to tell someone.

The next day I go to pick Aidan up from school and while I got a lot of compliments on the new do I knew there would be at least one of the you look like a lesbian commentators lurking around. And I was right. One of the grandmother's that regularly drops off and pick ups her grandkids. The type that is nosey and gossipy and knows everything about everyone in town... comes up to me and says "Why would you do that to your hair?! You look like a lesbian!!". Funny coming from a 70 year old woman with hair as short as mine which I guess is acceptable for only her. Apparently once you pass ab certain age short hair loses its lesbian-ness and is just understood as the hair cut that says... I'm fuckin old. I can't deal with that shit anymore".  Knowing this I should have just smiled and walked away. Taken the high road. But no. No high road. Not even the road less traveled. I took the low road and told her she looked like a lesbian too. Her 70 something year old grandma friend broke out into riotous laughter like a hyena. The one I called a lesbian... not so much. She was strangely offended by hearing back the same exact thing that she just said to me.

Oh jeez this new hair cut was making me look like a lesbian and act like a teenager. Which is some strange way felt good. I decided to tone down the attitude and update my wardrobe before I became public enemy number one amongst the senior clique in the school yard.

30+ is definitely a strange age... for me anyway. One second I find myself contemplating another baby and the next wondering if I could ever go through with a tummy tuck and some major boob work since we are done having kids. I get dressed and think am I too old for this kinda shirt? Take it off and realize those are the only kind of things I own. I go shopping for a more sophisticated wardrobe and after putting on 10 floral print 3 quarter sleeve flowing tops  think I am not quite that old yet and go back to the stuff I already have. On a rare occasion I long for my 20's. On those nights I will call a friend to go out for a drink. Once at the bar I realize how incredibly annoying 20 year olds are and want to go home. One day I am sporting the typical mom blonde bob and the next posing as a lesbian with an espresso faux hawk. 30... the age of schizophrenia.

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled life...

September. It used to be my favorite time of year. The end of summer. Cooler weather. Jeans. Boots. Maybe mother nature hasn't gotten the memo this year but the last official day of summer has come and gone... cut the shit with the hot weather already! I want to wear my uggs and sip pumpkin spice lattes in a cooler climate. This 85 degree nonsense is totally killing my fall buzz. But that is not the only thing that now sucks about September. Can you guess what the other fall buzz kill is? Yup... the beginning of yet another torturous school year!

The equally dreaded and highly anticipated welcome back to school letter arrives. Literally the weekend before the first day of school. Why? Why does the school withhold this coveted letter until the 11th hour? My best guess is so that parents don't have time to call and ask to have their child moved to another class room once they finally find out who is going to have the privilege of educating their little pumpkin this year. That letter feels to me more like a PSA "We now interrupt your regularly scheduled life to bring you 185 days packed with notes from the teacher, homework, more homework, requests for money for the nine thousand fundraisers that start on day one, and last but not least, all the bullshit and aggravation you can possibly stomach. Not to mention early mornings. Erratic nap schedules. The nightly bedtime, brush your teeth, wash your face struggle! Oh dear God how is it September already?!

Well when I started writing this it was September... now October. And after three full weeks of school I can say it... School. Still. Sucks! And the later it gets into the fall despite this humid disgusting could be summer weather... it is most definitely fall. How do I know? There is no sun when I have to get out of bed. Which just feels wrong. Rylan who was getting up at 5:30 am has now started sleeping later because even he is out to make my morning just a little harder. There is nothing worse than waking up to a dark quiet house only to turn on the godforsaken lights and even worse... wake a sleeping baby! Normally I would kill someone if they heaven forbid WOKE. THE. BABY! And now I must. I know you are probably thinking so wait 15 minutes . Have a cup of coffee. Enjoy the dark quiet for a brief peaceful much appreciated rare moment. No. Not possible. For a few reasons. I have already hit the snooze button 39 times and we are now late-r than we would be anyway. At the moment there is a coffee ban in my house since I read an article about the disgustingness that may be lurking inside my Kuerig. So now we have no sun. No coffee. And a baby that I have woken up. The definition of hell.

And then it gets worse. I have to wake Aidan up. Pillow throwing. Whining. Moaning. GET MY CLOTHES! GET AWAY FROM ME! I HATE SCHOOL AND I HATE YOU FOR WAKING ME AND TAKING ME... Aidan. He's pure joy at 7 am. After singing  "Get up get out of bed. Don't be a sleepy ahead. Open up your eyes" Obnoxiously 900 times to him (which he just loves) we head downstairs. The dogs race to the door usually knocking Rylan over. Aidan and Seark fight over who wins the race to the couch as I yell "NO ONE WON! WE DON'T RACE DOWN THE STAIRS UNLESS THERE IS A FIRE OR BURGLER!" Which they ignore and argue about who's ass hit the cushion first until I just about shove toast down there little throats to make them stop.

We usually wind up rushing out of the house like we are fleeing the scene of a crime. Not everyone is fully dressed. I am yelling HURRY... HURRY.... LET'S GO... HURRY! We make the mad dash around the block only to sit in dead stopped traffic. A long line of disastrous last minute moms shoving their kids out of the car as they pass the school. Blowing kisses to their bed head hot mess disheveled little loves as they yell "Have a good day honey". Let's face it... no one is having a good day if that is the start they are off to.

Yet I shove Aidan out of the car. Flatten his uncombed hair with spit on my hand and yell "have a good day honey"   as he mopes away. Every morning he waves when he gets to his door and I half expect him to give me the finger. And I wouldn't even blame him if he did.

I head back home with Seark and Rylan to clean the morning shit storm of crumbs and spilled juice. It isn't even 9 am and I am already defeated and exhausted. After a small quiet lull in the morning and a cup of dunkin donuts the day starts to look up. We go to a park or the zoo and enjoy the afternoon until school gets out.

Two things that I hate about this. One is that if Aidan were with us we could spend the entire day out. Not rush anywhere. Go down the shore or anywhere we want and just enjoy. Now we can only do very local things. I hate the limitations and time constraints that having to be back by 3 pm causes. And two I have to lie to Aidan and make sure that Seark does too. If Aidan thought that we were having even an ounce of fun with out him there would be literal hell to pay. So everyday when Aidan asks what we did I tell him. Nothing. We just waited for you. And I don't feel so bad about that because he lies to me to. Every. Single. Day. Since kindergarten I ask him how his day was and he says fine. Then I ask him what he did that day in school. Everyday I get the same answer.... nothing. Surely he did something. He just spent the last 7 hours at school. Maybe nothing that he loved but he did do something. But you will never get more out of him than "nothing"... well maybe the occasional eye roll.

From 3-6 is the absolute worst part of the day. Worse than the morning?! What in God's name could be worse than the morning?! Homework. Homework is far worse than any other thing associated with school. I think homework is really a test of the parents. I think it is teachers way of saying... I did this shit all day now its your turn to see what its like. Don't get me wrong I don't mind helping. Sitting with Aidan while he weeps and sobs over writing words three times each. I hear his plight. His hand hurts. His brain hurts. Just barely though as you can just about hear yourself think at this point because "Here comes the mail! It never fails! It make me want to wag my tail and wail... MAILS HERE!" I swear I hear that song in my head everyday as the mail truck parks smack in front of my house sending my senior dog into a frenzy. The little dog just follows suit. He has no idea the reason for the riot act but if Chachi who never moves unless he thinks cheese is involved is so worked up there must be a reason. Barking reaches ear piercing heights which in turn causes the already ornery Crylan to go into full blown melt down mode. Seark at some point will join in just to show solidarity in this insanely miserable situation. At this point I should just cry too. But I don't. I focus on the Blues Clues song circling my brain because... well because I have been up since before the crack of dawn with little to no sleep. All three kids are crying. The dogs are barking. The little one probably peeing on my floor because his bladder fails him when excitement hits. I have no happy thoughts of my own because my mind is in sensory overload. So I look at the clock and know if I can just keep my shit together for 3 more hours... just 3 more... hours. Oh. my. God. "Herecomesthemailitneverfailsitmakesmewannawagmytailandwail....MAILS HERE!" You just can't be upset while silently singing that song. And by the point the mail is here. Which I don't even bother to go and check because it's most likely just more bills. But the dogs have settled down. Or passed out. Either way they are quiet. In turn Seark and Rylan quiet down too. Aidan not so much because he still has more homework to do.

I bring Rylan in the kitchen with me. Put him with great protest in his exersaucer. And by great protest I mean I try to unbend his crunched frog legs while he claws at my face. I start dinner while tossing him cheerios one at a time and putting Neosporin on my fresh scratches. I yell into Aidan who is a pile of sarcasm and snot by now ... "just leave it I'll finish it for you." Don't judge. So what I finish the homework to save my sanity. It is what it is. The only things that bothers me is Aidan has the audacity to complain that I am not writing neat enough. Then I remind him I am writing as if I am him and he says "oh yeah. good job."

Finally 6 pm! Homework is done. Dinner is done. I only have to wrestle these filthy little I don't wanna wash my hair today monkeys into the tub. Get them to brush their teeth and then hand them off to my husband who puts them to bed. And just in the nick of time because I am ready to drop. But I don't. I clear the table and clean the dishes. Get snacks and lunch packed for tomorrow because I refuse to add even one more thing to the morning to do list. I pick up all the toys and scour the floor for Lego's so I don't have to scream "FUCK MY FOOT" in front of my little darlings in the morning. If I am lucky I have just enough time to sneak a shower before the littlest babe gets up to eat... again. And by then I get my second wind and no matter what I do I just can't settle down. So I stay up way too late just because it is quiet and dark and I am alone. Whoever said "silence is golden" definitely had children. Besides when else would I get to watch poignant adult TV like Real Housewives of New Jersey and Dance Moms.  But before I know it the morning will be here and it will feel like groundhog's day all over again! Damn it.... BEEEEEEEEEEP (my alarm goes off) WE NOW INTERRUPT YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULE LIFE TO BRING YOU 185 DAYS OF THIS SHIT...