Friday, May 2, 2008

I'm Sorry I'm Late, But You See...My Mom Exploded

What happens when you stop? Suddenly the noise you are a part of becomes the back drop to your life. The cartoons, the coffee brewing, the shuffle of your family members and their infinite requests—all a back drop to the feelings suddenly apparent within. Those feelings, the sensation of me—calm amongst chaos, chaos amongst calm, with some ever apparent new unwelcomed stranger within that is ever awaiting for the ball to drop. And I realize, I'm about to explode.

There are things I do to help me not- not explode, that is. They are not necessarily rational, but neither is the sensation of exploding.

I have picked up the 5am insomniac run. A few others, and myself stand outside the gym eagerly awaiting the staff to open the doors to a 'productive' way to pass our unproductive time. We leave with a 'high' only achieved through the last drug available that 'so help me God' the government can't control.

I then down a Turbo charged Caramel Latte for 95cents at my local Shell Station. I feel good that I saved the $3.25 extra I would have spent had I gone to Starbucks and ended up with three times less caffeine than Turbo charge offers me.

The noise begins at home…as the house wakes up and I become a part of their day—and no longer a part of mine. The breakfast is prepared, the dog is put out, the mess is cleaned, the kids are argued with, the husband is heard, the kids are consoled, the husband is too, the re-mess is re-cleaned, the family is shuffled "or pushed" out the door, the morning was survived. I take a sigh of relief, lock the door, look down…and see the biggest powerhouse of energetic de-combustion that exists—and he's two.

He looks at me and we realize we are in each others worlds for the next few hours whether we like it or not…so we better get along.

Television-Yes! There's nothing like morning television to help me out while I pour another cup of coffee. I can't turn the channel fast enough—his demands for Curious George have me yelling back at him, "Wait…we're having a Damn Emergency Alert System Warning…you have to wait! Wait! Just a moment—just a sec Hon, Honey you need to wait! Honey Bear…Hon Hon (I'm over-Honing him as I somehow believe it will take away the Damn I said earlier" Ahhh….there it is-Curious George. He is happy. I saved the day.

Phone rings. I pick it up---knowing full well it's not what I want to do, but what I have to do. Mr. or Mrs. Well Intentioned have no idea that my 'non demanded' moments are few and far in between. I'm lending them precious quiet time that only Curious George can offer me. I feel the end of the conversation approaching and realize, a request for juice by Little-So-Two is getting louder.

This bar maid that I've become, after giving up my Wet Nurse Career…has only made me want to make a public declaration against the oral phase and make it something we just don't allow—like the temper tantrum. But we all know who wins that one—so I give up the notion.

Juice served, I sit down with my computer. Phone rings again. Now pissed…I ignore it. My time on my computer is spent juggling the lap top and snuggly bugly Two's, "Mommy you're so cuddly" manipulative tactics. Sure…kiddo I can read into that."

Just as I log on, my bowels begin to feel what Turbo Charged is really about.

I leave the computer and make my way to the bathroom. Upon sitting I find my audience has brought his juice into the room where he believes his cuddly wuddly bugly time (yup…his manipulations have gotten better as he pondered the circumstances) will continue. Complete with tot, juice, and Turbo charge anti resistance, I complete the task at hand.

It's time to make beds and clear the rooms of debris none of my family members seem to see on the floor. I spend my days bowing to the imaginary goddess off cleanliness as I pick up bits and pieces of what nots and thing a magizzles and paper doo-dads. I wonder what I'd look like on video tape if placed on fast forward and chuckle my first and last chuckle of the day as I realize the Law of Pick Ups is in effect: The longer I pick up, the more I have to pick up.

See, by turning my back on the source of items to be picked up, in order to pick them up, the source of it all is as we speak strategically displacing and replanting items yet again. Hence, making my work essentially obsolete. It's irrational to continue to fight the force and yet…just like the irrational 5am jog, I am forced into perpetual motion as I attempt not to explode. Suddenly, I find the job is complete- but how?

I turn to Mr. Man and find that he is no longer present. That is how.

Unlike me, Mr. Man believes that 'his' privacy is of the utmost important when he makes a dookie. He has vanished to the dining room where I can hear and smell what is occurring under the table. YES! Finally a few minutes to myself, I think.

I reheat that coffee I didn't get to drink yet. Just as the microwave dings—the phone rings. Mr. Talks A Lot wants to talk too now that his dookie is sufficiently complete. I attempt to talk on the phone—but he follows me. "I want to talk too! Can I talk too? Who is it! I WANNA TALK!!!" I try to talk but with every step I realize I am weighted down by not only Mr. Talks A LOT but his very apparent bulging Craps A LOT that is filling my nostrils as we speak!

Somewhere within a vaguely audible tick tick tick begins.


Jumping Fences said...

I love that last line.

Anonymous said...

yay, you're here.

I love your little man

Manny said...

Great post. In a pinch, Nyquil's a great tranquilizer. Just sayin'.