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.
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.