It's 5am. I'm attempting to switch my schedule around. I figure if the kids sleep until 7, why not use the first two hours of the day to write? I can sit in front of the Xmas tree, peruse magazines, and sip my coffee without having to explain, "No, we can't lick the face off the 1960's nutcracker... Why? Because we can't. And I need the ten bucks to help out Santa, not Kaiser, when you need the glass pinecone dislodged from your lower intestine."
Then again, by tomorrow, I'll probably be woken in a stupor by Stink leaning over me, asking "Mommy, why are you drooling over the snowman pillow? And can you turn on Scooby? But first... wipe my butt."
As usual, I'm a woman conflicted. One side of brain: "I love these kids so much I could eat them." Other side of brain: "If I can't poop without requests for goldfish I will lose my mind."
I know the kids are young only once, and I don't want to look back over this time and think, I should have enjoyed them more. I don't think I will, because the truth is, I do so love these kids. Not one regret. Every day they are growing into emotional and responsible people who surprise me, enlighten me, and truly entertain me. But of course, I miss the small part of Mama P who enjoys being enlightened, suprised and entertained by, well, Mama P. (By things other than Elmo and grilled cheese sandwiches.)
So, once again, I'm putting on my war gear to go after that elusive enemy and friend: balance.
Which me luck - I'll be brave.