I lost it yesterday morning. I mean, I really lost it.
Moxie was hiding inside the dresser drawer, scarfing down popcorn after I told her countless times to get ready so we could go downstairs (in the hotel) and get breakfast (which would be over in 10 minutes). The boys seemed to have acquired her temporary deafness, it was like talking to thin air. Laundry was piled in the corner to somehow do, towels, toys and clothes strewn all over the room.
And I just lost it.
I went to bed and ugly cried.
I get tired of the constant shepherding, “come on, come on, let’s GO!”, of packing bags and shlepping from one place to another. Of being the memory of the group, “Micah, are you sure you want to leave your iPad on the table?” Of the 4 bathroom trips that invariably happen as soon as ordered food in a restaurant arrives. I’m tired of the wailing, the whining, the whinging, the fighting. Oh my God, the fighting!
“Mommmmmmmmmmy! Moxie hit me with Elsa!” – waaaaaaaaaah, THWUMP, “MaaaaaaaacccK!!!!!!!!!” bellows Moxie. “Mack, did you just hit Moxie?” I ask. “Yes, but she didn’t give me my backpack.”
Micah will happily join in on the fighting, making it all about Pokemon and crazy ninja moves. Mack gets all amped up with it, wants to practice on Moxie. And there you go. Again, and again and again.
Sometimes I read other blogs and it’s like, holy shit. Are my kids the only ones who fight? They are, aren’t they. I managed to breed the only children in the world who just can’t stop.
For the 20 minutes a day that they aren’t fighting (or asleep), how come I don’t treasure those moments?? How come I’m not all “sweet chubby limbs and bright faces” and I’m just like, “SIT the hell DOWWWWWWWWWN!!!!”
I am constantly tired.
I am not sure how much of this is just needing a break, how much is the cumulative stress of Dana being shot, still in the ICU, and likely to be in the ICU for a couple of weeks more. How much of this is the worry of what this is going to mean for him, for his family, and for my family. How much of this is the anxiety that I feel by the fact that the guys who shot him are still loose and we don’t know if it was a random or intentional robbery/shooting. Anxiety, because my nephews are young men who are visible and public and I don’t want anything to happen to them. Things don’t feel safe to me.
And I am tired from my body not being mine – sleeping with the kids in the hotel king-sized bed, their bodies all over mine, night after night. Writing in the morning with Mack on my lap (as he is now). I love their love and yet I need to be alone.
While I usually love being deaf, I am now tired of the strain of trying to hear and figure things out. I’m even tired of telling nurses that I lipread, and the whole “I’m sorry” responses, “mumble mumble mumble.”
The kids are up. The end.