Something amazing happens every night; something so
wonderful that it almost (I stress almost) feels wrong. Dylan goes to bed. The
heavens open, the stars line up, and my outstanding “to-do” list is cast aside because
quite frankly, I refuse to spend the only uninterrupted 2 hours of my day being
productive. So instead, I ease into my bed like a big blob of overcooked vegis
and decompress. This means by Thursday my house is a pigsty and by Friday the
to-do’s reach the ceiling. But it’s totally worth it.
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During the decompression, my snow globe mind resets to a
normal pace and sorts through all the scattered thoughts and observations that
were archived out of unconscious prioritizing. It’s in those moments I’ll look
to my husband and answer a question he asked 12 hours earlier, or laugh at a joke
I was told the day before. It’s as if I’m a sponge that has soaked up
experiences that can’t be experienced until they’re wringed out of me. It’s my
new normal.
Last night I battled with an exhausted toddler over eating
his dinner. He wanted to play with the spaghetti and I wanted him to eat it. My
husband was working late and I was alone with an orange stained monster in
desperate need of a bath and attitude adjustment. So I powered through the
screams, the clothes, the drawing of the bath, the scrubbing, the bottle, until
finally reaching the finish line where sweet silence meets a sleeping
Dylan. And when the little brat was finally tucked away in his crib, I squealed
with joy. Because sometimes mommy needs a time out; and when I finally get one,
it will NOT be spent doing the damn dishes.