My son is walking from room to room (in our teeny-tiny-too-small-for-a-family-of-six house) making a buzzing, humming sort of sound. You know that sound that light sabers make when they’re not actively clashing against one another. That super annoying, almost bug zapper like sound? Yes. That.
Because I know that he is deep in thought, playing a game of imagination with his LEGOs and not watching a TV show, playing on the Kindle or melting to death outside while covering his recently showered body with ticks and dirt, I’m letting it go without a peep or an eye roll or a “Hey, Buddy, can you do something else?” But, honestly, I am about to crawl out of my face, I am so annoyed.
And, I don’t know if it’s the heat, or if it’s because I’m 24 hours away from a three night getaway without my children (though I’m about 24 minutes away from locking myself in my room and rocking back and forth), or if it’s the heat, but while cleaning, I’m finding every little thing so much more irritating.
Gogurt wrappers. Who on earth invented these slimy, disgusting plastic tubes of unnaturally colored yogurts? (And yes, I know that other non Yoplait companies make them, but my kids don’t want the Greek stuff, they don’t like it. And I can’t blame them. I’d go for the cartoon character with the extra sugar too.) Why do my children find it impossible to ever put their wrappers into the garbage (not beside it, not near it, not down the cushion of the couch – but IN the garbage?)
Why did my daughter have to have explosive diapers, not once or twice, but four times today AND in the bath? Why? (Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s fruit season. I probably brought this on myself, trying to feed her more natural things and less processed and served in plastic tube things. Again, Gogurt, I shake my fist at you.)
And while we’re on the subject of my youngest, must she wake me with a furrowed brow, diaperless and demanding a snack? And must she decide that when she wants to sleep, she will do so, whenever and wherever she’d like, even if it means that running to the post office will most likely not take place today?
(Post Office, while I’m ranting nonsense, why are you so lucky? Federal holidays off. Closing by 4:30. Pffft.)
*This post interrupted by the stomping of feet and Lila finding me, hands on her hips, “Asher took my puppy’s name tag off!”
Tattling. And teasing. And the grabbing of toys and hiding them from one another. Oh, Time Out. Remember when you were magic?
Wait, I don’t either. And, while I’m thinking of it, why is my every effort at discipline lately met with a smirk from my eldest (and often a smart reply? And why does he have to be so logical and often correct?)
While we’re on the subject, I would also appreciate it if Evaline wasn’t already able to count well enough that I can’t slip additional bites past her lips if I’ve already said, “Two more bites and you can be done!”
Tried to get a third mouthful of egg salad in there today, she told me what’s what.
I guess that’s really all it comes down to.
Everything in this house is giving me the what-what. Dishes? Oh, we’re never done. Laundry, Pshahahahahahahahaha. Everything. The arguments and dirty footprints, and the dog barking, the counters cluttering, the inbox filling and the repetition of the words Can I have a snack? (Asher, in particular, I’m looking at you.)
The question itself that leads to stalling at the cabinet while I stand, waiting to pull down whatever snack they would like. They freeze and stare at the shelves like something newer and more exciting is going to appear and they’re just waiting for it. (Not happening, kiddos.)
But perhaps what kills me the most, is knowing that just as I fall asleep most nights, listening to the quiet of my house, thinking of all of the wonderful things of parenthood, I just know that my sappy twenty-years-from-now-self is actually going to miss this.
Probably all of it.
Even the fingerprints on the wall, the squeals from their bedroom JUST as I try to get Evie to sleep on my lap. That grating light saber buzzing that reminds me what it’s like to be so engrossed in an imaginary world that I actually forget myself.
Even the sink full of dishes and the piles of laundry, each reminding me that my house, my life, my heart is full.
(Or at least, that’s what I’m going with for the moment, with T-minus 23 hours now until I get a few kid-free nights.)