I have this magnet on my refrigerator. I bought it as a joke right before moving in with my fiancée and two young daughters. Eleven years and a son later, I curse myself for not taking the magnet seriously and running no, bolting in the other direction. The magnet says, “Raising children is like being pecked to death by a chicken”. Clearly that magnet was created by a mother. Probably one who got out before it was too late.
Throughout the years of my marriage, I’ve awaken the same way. In bed or on the couch (or the backseat of my SUV, depending on how loud my husband snored that night). I slowly open one eye. If I’m lucky, it’s not glued shut from the allergy jam that settled in it that night because if I have to move anything other than that one eyelid, all hell breaks loose. My two dogs are then notified to my awakeness and jump to attention, expecting to be pet or fed or walked or told for the billionth time how cute they are. If luck persists, I can lie still for a few minutes and allow my body and brain to physically wake up. Sometimes I’m even able to move, pet the dogs quickly and get them out the door without much sound. Of course at that point the fifteen pound cat who thinks she’s a dog throws herself on the floor in front of me and does her daily ritual of roll-overs to impress me into petting her fluffy fat body. Which of course I do because she’s cute and if I don’t, she’ll howl loud enough to destroy my plan of getting five minutes of quiet time before everyone else wakes up.
I then get to tip toe through the house to the coffee pot so I can quietly make a pot of decaf coffee. Personally I think the decaf is pointless but the damage my already hyper husband would do to the walls while pinging off of them all day from caffeinated would stress me out so I sacrifice.
Once the coffee is made I tip toe with it to the couch (a skill I’ve mastered and should have amazing calves for but don’t because God is clearly a man) and I sit in sheer, orgasmic silence, sipping my sacrificial unleaded coffee until I hear the pitter patter of my sons feet down the stairs. This is usually about 20 seconds after I sit. His timing is impeccable. Goodbye alone time.
Honestly I don’t mind that he gets up when he does. He’s sleepy and mushy and always wants to snuggle; something I enjoy and try not to take for granted. The snuggling is quick, just as long as I can hold my breath because once I breathe I am engulfed in the stench of whatever it is that crawled into his mouth while he was sleeping, took a dump and then died . Really, I have my limits.
Once I’m ready to breathe again, I get up and my son turns on the TV. Usually it’s Nickelodeon. The worst network. Ever. I’ve considered sending death threats to its management but I’m pretty sure millions of other mothers have already and they probably wouldn’t take me seriously. And if they did, I don’t want to spend my life with my finger in the pocket of Big Sally, my new girlfriend, if you get my drift.
Before I know it, everyone is up and the whole, “Mom can I...”, “Mom, did you...”, “Mom,” “Mom,”, “Mom,” thing starts and the next thing I know it’s eleven years later, I’m forty-two, my thighs are expanding, my hair is graying and I think being institutionalized doesn’t sound all that bad. If only I’d realized the truth behind that magnet.
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