Monday, August 6, 2012

The Slave Years

They wouldn't go to sleep.  I tried everything I could think of.  They just wouldn't stop wiggling and fussing and complaining about pillow temperature or lack of milk supply or that my arm massage wasn't tickly enough.  My head nearly exploded with frustration.  I remembered to breath, to relax, that if I remained wound up tight and on the verge of freaking out so would they.  By the time they fell asleep, over an hour after getting in to bed, I was a mama sandwich, trapped in a twin bed, flanked by two sweaty, elbow digging daughters.  I wanted out.  Bad.  I needed my shower, my quiet, my freedom to think about something other than their care. 

I made my move, stealthy and urgent.  They stayed asleep, lulled by the white noise machine lapping artificial bedside waves.  I found my solitude.  My much yearned for shower.  Here is where I can unwind.  Only one pair of eyes to keep soap out of.  Only one body to clean.  Only one towel to put in the hamper. 

After this trying day of parenting, relax and unwind I could not.  So I turned to my fall back - maniacal grout scrubbing.  At least my shower is clean now.  These are the slave years. 

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