A Head Start on the Day?

After a few false starts and intentional ignorings of my alarm, I rose before the children needed to with the intent to get a head start on the day.

The idea sounded great last night -you know, during that time I looked over the laundry, paper bills and tax forms, dishes, laundry, to-do list, messy tables, dishes, incomplete homework, laundry, cluttered floors, dirty toilets, almost-sleeping children, and more laundry and dishes- and told myself that I could go to sleep and address it all tomorrow.

An old picture, but somehow still applicable.

I neglected to recall how tired I am when I first rise.

So, yawning, here I sit, cursing my mental state, for not recalling that I’d need a day to fully wake. I can see why people drink coffee. I think. I’m actually not experiencing much clarity of thought yet.

True, I shouldn’t need much ‘clarity of thought’ to just do dishes or sort laundry. The problem with that is that I’ve pretty much run out of tricks. I’ve tried bribes, calm reasoning, yelling, and reverse psychology; but I just can’t convince myself to do the housework.

No matter what, I know two things: there will never be an end, and there will be more after that.

So, yawning, here I -oh, I already said that. Sorry; tired mom brain.

What’s a dead-brained mother to do? The toilets? Maybe after breakfast, I suppose. If nothing else gets done during this Magic Quiet Hour, I at least got some writing in.

And (don’t tell) some chocolate.


Photo by Levi Bare on Unsplash

At-Home Gym


“There’s something wrong with your hair,” my oldest says, making a face. Trying to elaborate, he adds, “It just looks terrible.”

These are the sort of compliments that hit a mother right in the self esteem. They come at the right moment, too: just when I’ve talked myself into some gym clothes and in front of the television. I also assured me that frumpy was suitably modest around the boys, that my sweat stains formed artistic patterns, and that I could erase everyone’s memories once able to shower.

My oldest looks back over at me. “It’s just …eurgh!”

What kind of sound is that?! I stop mid-crunch and bring a hand up to feel what offended him. I hit mostly sweat, and some stringy pieces that might be my thinning hair. Perhaps he’s simply not a fan of the whatever-pulls-hair-out-of-the-way ponytail, I reason.


I don’t have time, however, for the cute braids and non-sweat look the YouTube instructor is sporting. can’t plank with hair in my face; can’t crunch with a lump of hair on the back of my head. If my son can’t handle Sweaty Troll Mom then that’s his problem.

“Thanks, Sam,*” I say, pretending the booming dubstep music has impaired my hearing. I continue pretending to keep up with the sadistic woman on screen.

I’m not one of those people who likes to exercise in front of others. I don’t like doing much of anything in front of others. Given that I can’t even urinate without an audience of fingers beneath the door, I often find just such unwanted attention during my YouTube Aerobics Time.

Sometimes I think to wake up earlier, but then remember that I screwed that plan up when I stayed up late.

Then I consider dropping them in The Pit at the gym, but recall that two of the four have aged out. I guess the daycare workers assume they’re old enough to watch themselves; the boys assume that they can punch each other unsupervised.

Other days I hang out in my gym clothes until my darling husband comes home …and then watch him crash on the couch. Don’t worry; he revives once dinner’s on the table.

*Sigh* What’s a girl to do?

Troll hair it is.



unsplash-logoJacob Morrison
unsplash-logoMohamed Nohassi


*I always change the names of my kids