Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Where is her mute button?
Sometimes, I feel like a hunted animal cowering behind a bush in the forest. Except the predator is my 2-year-old daughter, and the bush is my bedroom door that doesn't lock.
Andrew is sick today. A precious, adorable, heartstring-pulling sick where he mostly sleeps and just wakes occasionally to ask for a sip of water. If parenthood always consisted of such low standards of me, I'd definitely be in the running for Mother of the Year.
We canceled our plans and I'm still in my flannel PJs. His limp, sleepy, feverish little body covered in PJs just makes me want to crawl into bed and snuggle him back to health. He's so stinkin' adorable.
Simone is attempting to squash our family's scheme to sit home and do nothing, with her little flitting, singing, dancing, jumping, chatting little self. I'm feeling impatient with her inability to sit still and veg out in front of Thumbelina. Or her inability to get her own damn lunch.
Jack has watched so many movies today that I've lost count. A few movies ago was something about giant arachnids throwing meteors at Earth, and I sat next to him for awhile to watch it and bond with him. He might be fighting something too, because he's low-maintenance, sendentary, and completely adorable.
Simone, on the other hand, has just been chasing me around the house announcing her actions like a play-by-play commentary.
I ate all my pasta, Mommy.
Can you turn on the light, I have to go pee.
Is there any poop on my butt?
Why is there a zebra on my cup?
Who broke this piece of paper?
Why does my butt do this? (and then does a little booty-dance)
I talkin' REAL quiet so I don't wake up Andrew. (Um, no. You're not.)
Do you want your glasses?
Do you want your drink?
Do you want your slippers?
Actually, no. I really just want my chatty child to go to sleep, so I can snuggle with my low-maintenance sick ones.
So I shut my bedroom door and hide. Hoping if I'm out of sight, I'd be out of mind. And then I hear footsteps in the hallway and a little girl singing the alphabet song, and my heart freezes in terror.
The door flings open. "CAN I HAVE SOME FOOD?" Andrew wakes up.
I tell her I think there's something shiny and pink in the living room, and she goes away for a few seconds to check.
"I CAN'T FIND IT, MOMMY!"
I have a very bad attitude today. I left a voice mail for Steve, muttering something about how grateful I am for my energetic, curious, gregarious children. And that we are battling only minor feverish sleeps and not real illnesses. More of a reminder to myself than to him, since he couldn't even understand my mumbling recording.
But my attempt at an attitude adjustment didn't work.
If we ever genetically modify human beings, my first request would be a mute button. Selectively used, of course. But there should at least be the option.