Impeded

I lay awake in bed this morning, woken up by a toddler with a very wet diaper. I clean her up and she climbs into bed with us, next to her father and sister. She finds a comfortable position and goes back to sleep. I, on the other hand, am not so lucky. It is 5:20 am. The night before, I said to my husband, “I’m going to try to swim in the morning.” In the dark room this morning, with very little light encroaching, I say to myself, “Why don’t you get up and go swimming?” I ignore the voice and feel vindicated a short while later, when my husband reports that it is pouring rain outside, which I didn’t know. But soon enough, a bolt of lightning illuminates the room briefly. Decision made, I still can’t go back to sleep. I hold my phone, playing Draw Something instead,  obsessively shuttling back and forth between email and Facebook. At that early hour, action is slow. I ask myself another question: “Why don’t you get up and write something?” Mmh… that is not a bad idea. I slither out of bed, hoping to let sleeping children lay. I close the door softly behind me and tip-toe to the kitchen to start the kettle. As I turn around to go to the bathroom, I am met with arms stretched upward and a toddler mewling, “uppie, mommy.” I pat her head and take her by the hand. A two year old knows no boundaries and will rest her sleepy head upon your lap even as you sit on the toilet to pee. I gently nudge her away and carry her out of the bathroom. “I’m hungry, mommy.” “You want yogurt?” “Yogurt! I want yogurt!” I set her up at the table with her yogurt and a spoon, heading back to the kitchen to tend to that kettle. Following right behind is a pre-schooler demanding “uppie mommy.” I pick her up and give her a big morning hug before suggesting yogurt. She obliges and slithers out of my arms to fetch her yogurt. She joins her sister at the table, who is now asking for a peanut butter sandwich, yogurt barely touched. I’m determined not to give up on the kettle, now no longer hot. I turn it on again and begin making the sandwich. I’m interrupted by the sandwich-requester who has decided she wants american cheese. She opens the fridge and yanks the cheese drawer off its track in her zealous quest. I set the cheese drawer back on track, and turn around to see her furiously ripping open the cheese. She takes one slice and lets the rest fall on the kitchen floor. I pick up the cheese, and decide, upon inspection, that it must be thrown out. As I close the garbage, my husband ambles into the kitchen, commandeering the kettle for his coffee.

Moral of the story: Sit down and write before turning on the kettle and peeing.