I love my kids. I love them so much that sometimes it hurts my heart. Time flies by.
Sometimes.
I see them growing up right before my very eyes. It’s so beautiful.
Sometimes.
That aside, my kids drive me absolutely crazy. I say things I swore I’d never say and I do things I swore I’d never do. Being a mom has aged me. There have been times when I’ve looked in the mirror and thought that the person looking back at me resembles that weathered lady with the husky smokers voice we’ve all seen at the local pub who looks like she’s been sitting there for a decade. (She’s totally a mom by the way.) Thanks to motherhood, I’ve come to appreciate things that I never valued before, or just took for granted.
Wine.
My bed.
Maury Povich.
I’m sure you have questions. I’ll explain.
Wine is my coping mechanism. Judge me all you want. I don’t care, I’m probably drunk. The funny thing about my post-kid drinking habits is that my sweet spot is the 3:00-7:00 range. Anything before, even I would judge and anything after makes me crazy tired. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence but that is also the time each day that all three of my spawn make repeated attempts to take me down. Their mental warfare techniques are impressive. I’ve often thought my kids would be great interrogators at Gitmo. I watch Homeland. I know how theses things work. These kids could break anyone. So I drink wine and pretend I’m in Napa. I enjoy each and every one of those empty calories that cushion that “baby weight” I just can’t seem to shake. I sometimes I hate myself for loving it so damn much.
I think of you every night and day.
You took my heart, then you took my pride away.
After all that wine, it’s time to hit the sack. Just kidding. I don’t have time to sleep. My bed just sits there, waiting for me, watching me, wondering when I will finally stay in it all night. The sad truth is that I fear those days are long gone. The cruel irony is now that my kids sleep basically sleep though the night, I don’t. WTF? Sometimes I’m upstairs and I’ll catch a glimpse of my bed from the hallway. I wonder what would happen if I just creeped in there and hid under the covers. Would anyone notice? Of course they would. Who would get them their snacks? Or wipe their ass? The longing I have for this inanimate object is so intense that I almost hate myself for loving it and the few brief moments of joy it provides me each night.
Onto Maury. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. You ALL know him. Well, here’s my dirty little secret: I try to coordinate my laundry folding time with his show. I am consistently amazed and intrigued by the sheer number of people who have no idea who fathered their baby. I mean, THERE ARE JUST SO MANY. These people exist! It just blows my mind and keeps me riveted during my most mundane domestic task. And don’t get me started on the lie detector tests. Here’s what I have learned from Maury, or maybe just life. If you’re in a relationship that requires one or both of you to take a test to see if you’re lying, you should probably run like hell. Unless you aspire to get your 15 minutes of fame on Maury, then you’re on the right track. I’d like to tip my hat to Maury. Thanks to his continued attempts to rid the world of paternity issues and liars, I gain a new appreciation for the simple life I lead. There is just one drawback: I really hate myself for loving this show.
Can’t break free from the the things that you do.
I want to walk but I run back to you, that’s why
I hate myself for loving you.
Suburban Rhapsody 