I didn't sleep much last night. Cole had a tough time going to bed because of an alleged stuffy nose. Stella kept waking up, mostly content only when sleeping on top of me. Cole woke twice in the middle of the night, screaming for things like tissue and water. My alarm went off way too early.
I slipped out of bed, careful not to move Stella's finally peaceful body so I could go wake Aiden for another day of kindergarten. It feels particularly cruel to wake Aiden when he is so deep in sleep, so warm wrapped up in his comforter, and the only one that let me sleep all night. Surely I should be showering him with candy or something. It's one thing for me to have to drag myself out of bed without a natural finish to my rest, but at six you should be able to sleep as long as your little self needs.
I pull on well worn sweats and an old Purdue sweatshirt that best emulates the feeling of still being under the covers. Alex makes the coffee and I pack lunches, make breakfast, and prod Aiden along in the string of morning tasks he has to accomplish quickly in order to make the bus. He never minds having to hurry a bit, he just keeps forgetting that it's necessary. My slippers, slightly sticky, make a little sound with every move I make around the kitchen, this is an annoying reminder that I really need to clean, but my feet strongly oppose direct exposure to the cool wood floor.
As Aiden goes to brush his teeth, I finish making Alex's lunch and say a quick prayer of gratitude that Stella and Cole are still asleep. I allow myself a moment to day dream about going back to bed after the bus, or even just sitting in the stillness of the house, but quickly push these thoughts out of my mind. I don't want to feel annoyed when one of them wakes up, and conjuring up scenarios where they give me prolonged peace is a fast track to disappointment, best to just assume they will be up any minute.
I watch Alex walk around in his shirt and tie, his perfectly combed hair. I pick sleep out of my eye and run my hand along the worn elastic of my sweatshirt bottom, it's cozy, but I feel more bag lady than cozy mom in comparison to my husband's striking appearance. Some mornings I would prefer he worked somewhere that did not require him to look so damn good, it hurts my self esteem.
I wonder if the parks department is hiring any of those guys that blow the leaves in the park near our house, and pick up trash. He would be so good at picking up trash.
I contemplate going to put on "real" clothes so I can stop feeling so envious of my husband's, but then I remember I'm supposed to be going to the gym and the thought of tight workout pants and a sports bra right now sounds as nice as tying a bunch of rubber bands around myself.
(That doesn't sound nice at all to me, just to be clear.)
I seek coffee. I don't like coffee, but I drink about a 1/4 of a cup, heavily laden with flavored soy milk just to feel warm and wake up slightly. As I walk to the coffee maker, Alex is walking out the door to take Aiden to the bus stop and informs me the filter fell forward in the machine and the coffee is filled with grounds. I groan, because I'm mature, and he tells me not to worry about remaking it, he'll just stop at Starbucks.
How nice for him.
I make the tiniest amount of coffee I can and wonder who would hire me so that I could walk out the door in the morning too, popping in to Starbucks on my way. I would require a job in which I had to dress up, at least most days, and I romanticize my shopping trips to purchase fun things like a pencil skirt and wide leg dress pants and blouses.
Love the word blouses, so much potential.
Now that Alex is gone, I take a moment to marvel at the silence in my house. Two sleeping children, one on a bus to school, and a husband on his way to buy himself a $5 cup of coffee in his fancy clothes. It's 7:00 and this is peaceful, this seems worth waking up for, even after a night of so little sleep.
I pull out my computer and think of searching Monster.com for jobs, listed by apparel required, but then I remember I would probably have to actually finish writing a resume and Good Morning America is on so why torture myself. Maybe someone will just come find me for a job, demanding to see my Pinterest style board and my blog of absurdity to evaluate my qualifications. It could happen, and I would be ready.
My Pinterest board is filled with outfits I would wear to work to meet with editors, pr people, the media....in the Pinterest world I am a very successful writer with such a magnetic personality that people also pay me to just hang out with them. I can also afford coffee and babysitters.
Good Morning America only bores me, though I do love the way they all have to dress, perhaps I could be a weather woman or a morning show anchor...do you have to have a specific degree for those? I took the LSAT in 2003, would that count as something?
It's 7:45 and my youngest babies are still cozy, warm in their beds after a rough night of sleep and I am grateful for that. They have so many hectic mornings ahead, it's sort of a gift to be able to let them make the timeline for now. I feel the all too familiar emotions of being extremely grateful for this time for them and not being able to squash my desire to have a little more time away, to do adult things, earn adult money, and have adult conversations.
(To be clear, all my "adult" things do not include anything scandalous because I am listing them as adult, they just don't include people that ask me to feed them and bathe them.)
It isn't my time though and I can't be caught up in that. Now is my home time. Now is my rock the babies, and calm the tantrums, and distribute the snacks, and read in a big comfy chair time. I wouldn't want anyone else to have this time with them. I don't want them feeling sad or wanting to cuddle or having their firsts anywhere but with me....but some days I could really use a pencil skirt, a pop in at Starbucks without ordering a Horizon boxed milk, and a task that requires me to stretch my brain rather than put it on pause.
I think if we could just get Alex that job at the park, I wouldn't be reminded of the contrast so often between my current place and the place I think looks appealing every now and then. There is a good chance though that if he starts blowing leaves and picking up trash, my opportunity to sit on the couch admiring Robin Roberts' dress until 8:15 when I am greeted by these two, would simply never happen.
I guess he should keep his fancy clothes and continue to be the one that runs out the door at 7:00, and I suppose he should get Starbucks whenever he pleases. It's not my time to be that one, and I think I am actually mostly grateful about that.
(Though I would really like to have somewhere to where a pencil skirt.)
This is my stay here time, my feel pangs of jealousy of the working masses time, my baby time...and I'm told it's going to fly by so I better get to it. Ovaltine anyone?
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