Dear Babies,
What was it about this morning that was so awful?
There was someone always crying...
You guys are getting these ridiculously pointy incisor teeth that make you look like mini "Twilight" cast-members, especially you, Baby Girl, with your glittery headband the sprinkles silver dust down to your nose. Watch out, Rob Pattinson, there's a new sparkly carnivore in town.
On top of that, you have that cough. And a fever. And you spent the whole morning with your arms wrapped around both my legs like you were hugging a tree stump with your nose buried in my behind. And I mean the entire morning, and I mean literally buried in my behind.
And you, Baby Boy, you get so upset when you go to the bathroom in your pants. But you're stuck in this pattern of running to the potty--which is set up smack down in the middle of the kitchen, making it the latest addition to the long list of things I said I would never do before I had children, "think nothing of having a toilet in my living room?!"--after you've already gone. Before, I tell you, before. And then you feel bad, and cry.
The gap between the things I want to get done and what actually gets down is growing at warp speed. I'm talking Grand Canyon proportions here. Professionally. Physically. House-keeping-ly. And I know, that's not a word.
We leave for vacation on Saturday and though I've been mentally packing since last Tuesday, do you know what I've actually done for it?
Nothing.
Do you know what I, with my long-neglected toenails and bags under my eyes, will look like by the time I actually step foot onto that beach?
Nosferatu.
(Please look him up.)
I tried to break up a wrestling match over a Thomas the Train figure--"WE HAVE TWO! WE HAVE TWO!," I cried waving my arms, "HERE! YOU CAN EACH HAVE ONE! THEY'RE BOTH THE SAME!"--but then halted in my tracks.
I recalled something I'd read recently (*and would sincerely like to give credit to the author, but for the life of me cannot remember where I read it or what genius said it, so I'm so sorry, please don't sue): If you're unhappy with your life it's not your life that's the problem, it's the way you're living it.
"Come on, babies," I said. "Let's get out of here. Let's go."
So much in writing applies to "real life." Whenever I get stuck on something, right after I curse, right before I throw my laptop out the window and light myself on fire, I leave it. I physically walk away. I take a break. I come back...
...We went for a walk. Down the big hill on Luquer. Along Plandome. Around Leeds Pond. I tried to point out nature things to you, like cranes and seagulls and sudden splashes of water that I made up big stories around and said came from magic fish. You pointed to mail trucks and UPS trucks and stop signs, but still. We were out. I sang Paul Simon, "Was a sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky..."
When we came home things were still bananas. The house is still a mess, even worse now, after grilled cheese and tomato and corn on the cob for lunch. (Oh, the kernels.)
We're off to swimming lessons in a little bit. It's a long day ahead of us with no shower for me in sight. But...
"Was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky..."
Eh, it's all good.
Love,
Mom
