I've been sleeping a lot lately.
A lot.
Like 10-12 hours a night. (Not including the 2-3 times I wake up and have to take care of little ones who cry at ungodly hours.)
It has been fabulous.
I like to luxuriate in the comfort and warmth of my bed in the mornings for as long as possible. The sexy man I am married to rouses me when he gets up to shower. But I still lay there. Sometimes I doze. Sometimes I just revel in laziness. And I don't like to get up until my children wake up and I HAVE to.
To, you know, do mom stuff.
So when Sexy Man goes off to work, I'm barely out of bed and looking my most fetching.
Then I spend the day taking care of little helpless ones that have endless needs. And I try to remember to take care of my own needs. Like eating. And occasionally bathing. Once in a great while I even dry my hair and put on makeup so that I don't look like Medusa. Although, if I'm being completely honest, I don't usually get around to demedusifying myself until about two o'clock. Because that's when the tiny one is napping instead of pulling on my pants and crying "Hoe jew!" (toddlerese for "Hold you!"), or writhing in my arms and banging his skull against the bridge of my nose while screaming "Nooooo! Uh-huh! Nooo!"
I spend my days wiping a myriad of things many times. And bending over. I am forever bending over to pick things up. Toys. Paper. Crayons. Bits of sandwich. Children. Clothing.
Living the dream, right? I am, actually. This is my first choice. To be a virtually unappreciated stay at home housewife. I certainly am not going to let anyone else raise my children, thankyouverymuch, and since children need constant supervision, that's my job. Well, I'd let Brent be the stay at home parent, but he is capable of making a lot more money than I am. I have a lot of skills, but none that anyone would pay me for. And so we have fallen into traditional gender roles. And happily, too, I might add.
But just because my life is exactly how I would choose it to be doesn't make it easy.
And so after nine hours of being SuperMom I start to lose it. I lose my patience. I yell. I cry. I hide. And while I am yelling and crying and hiding, I sometimes try to pick up the rubble and occasionally cook dinner too.
And then Sexy Man returns home. He comes home to a disheveled and rapidly deteriorating wife. And suddenly the demons that have been possessing my children for the last one-hundred-and-forty-eight minutes (not that I'm counting) exorcise themselves and two cherubic smiles beam brightly.
But my face? Not so bright. And the very moment my children are behind closed doors in darkened bedrooms, I head straight for my own sanctuary. My blissful bed.
And this routine is what has led my husband to believe that something needs fixing.
Wife crying? Needs fixing. Husband jumps into SuperDrive and takes over the wiping and the cleaning and the parenting.
Wife in bed at eight o'clock? Something wrong. Wife must be depressed. Hormones? Need drugs?
No. I'm not depressed, My Love. I'm just very, very tired. And THANK YOU for taking over the wiping and the cleaning and the parenting, by the way, and not coming home expecting me to serve you chicken pot pie on a TV tray so you can unwind from your own stressful day by ignoring your family that desperately needs you. I'm sorry all you ever see of me is a woman barely conscious or barely holding it together. Someday when we're independently wealthy you can quit your job and be home during the day and then you'll see that the happy and vivacious woman that you married does still exist.
She does. I promise. I just need to find her.
Is it bedtime yet?
