Please don’t judge me.

Jul3

Every spring I get this incredible urge, it lasts throughout the summer. It borders on obsession really, if I don’t satiate my desire it overwhelms me. Every year I tell myself, not again, but when the spring zephyrs begin to blow, I find myself searching for them.

I suppose I should call them what they really are, I have come to a place of acceptance with what I do. Victims. They are victims, innocent and unworthy of their fate, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot help but seek them out in an effort to fulfill this secret fantasy of mine.

I guess you could say I stalk them at first. Once I find one I think would be perfect, I admire from afar, building up the courage to take what I should not be taking. No one ever suspects, I don’t look like the type to be engaging in something so unseemly, it only makes it easier to walk away with my prey. Usually it’s just one at a time, but every once in a while I end up with more. It’s easier to do what needs to be done with just one at a time.

Last summer I went crazy for a week and ended up bringing one home every day, it was too much to deal with, they expired quickly. This year, I have so far resisted, my husband intervened after I was
caught dumping my last failure, his disappointment in me was heartbreaking. He stuck by me though. That man is a rock.

I’m not sure I can hold out much longer. My desire has become a need, a thirst begging to be quenched, a hunger screaming to be satiated. I think today is the day. There is no one around to stop me. All I want to do is nurture and protect, I convince myself I’m rescuing them but in the end, they all end up dying, buried beneath the damp earth in my yard.

I remember every one of them, how beautiful they were before I stole away with their life. I miss them, I just can’t help but think the next one will be different, I will be different and we will be happy together, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

If I could find ~~an accomplice~~, a partner who would not judge me or interfere, maybe it would be easier. I can’t ask my husband and involving my children is out of the question. I should go to the authorities and just turn myself in, I just want to try one more time before I take that step. I have to believe I can make this work.

This may be a silly question, but . . . What kind of fertilizer do you use? Do you water in the morning or the evening? Potted or in the ground? Is there some special type of soil I should be using? Help me. Please, help me before I go to Home Depot and find more helplessly, beautiful flowers to kill again this year.

Don’t judge me. I try.

Crystal R. Cook

He doesn’t truly mean me any harm . . .

Jul3

Not sure If I should be worried . . .

My son loves swords, he is always coming up with new ideas for swords he wants to one day make. He loves to share the details of his many, many, MANY, ideas with me, this morning was no exception, but his wording left me with a wee bit of trepidation ~

“Hey Mommy, I have an idea for a sword I want to run through you.”

Freudian slip? Not so passively, passive aggressive?

“You do mean, run BY me, right?”

“Right?”

Cheaper than therapy

Jul2

Coffee sadness

Jul1

Subjective Variation . . .

Jul1

I have pretty honest kids, I really do. It’s fairly rare I catch them being untruthful . . . one of them though, he blurs the line between honesty and deception every now and then. For instance, my coconut waters go missing, I find the empty containers in his room.

Me: “Stop taking my drinks.”

Him : “I didn’t.”

Me: “I found the empty cans in your room!”

Him: “Those are old.”

Me: “Old as in yesterday?”

Him: “I didn’t know they were yours.”

Me: “They are always mine.”

Him: “You didn’t say that this time.”

See, he gets me on technicalities. Empty cans from yesterday, technically old. I put them on the shelf without specifying they were mine (even though they always are) so technically, I didn’t tell him they were not for him. He is a master word weaver, if I could afford it, I would send him to law school. He would make a great lawyer.

When he was in his mid-teens I busted him mid-fib, I no longer remember what he was trying to deny, cover-up, make light of, or get out of, but what he said in a last-ditch effort to worm out of the situation was epic . . .

“It wasn’t a lie, it was just a subjective variation of the truth.”

My son, the smart, witty, and wonderful troll he is, succeeded. I lost my composure and started smiling. At least it was an almost admission he was practicing the art of deception, just a little.

Don’t worry sweetie, it gets easier.

Jun30

I’ve been going through old journals and stacks of papers I’ve haphazardly stuffed into the many brightly colored shoe boxes stashed all around my home. I’m finding so many little slices of my life tucked away between scribbled to do lists and old mail. So many memories I may have forgotten had I not taken the time to preserve them in ink. This afternoons treasure hunt turned up this silly, and thankfully kept memory . . .

I had the greatest, most annoying and simply funny conversation with another mother at the grocery store this afternoon. I was scanning the shelves looking for something cheap, easy to prepare and nutritious to feed my growing children for dinner.

Actually, in all honesty, I could have cared less about nutrition, I just wanted an easy fix for the nights meal. I was with my youngest, so I turned to him for his expert opinion.

“How about corn dogs?” he says. I make a face and tell him corn dogs stink too much.

He says, “How about some popcorn?” I think not.

“Can we make lasagna?” The kid doesn’t even like lasagna, he says, “Oh yeah.” when I remind him.

Besides, lasagna would take effort on my part, the very thing I was trying to avoid. He makes a few more suggestions, all of which I reject for one reason or another, it was sort of becoming a game. We where laughing and having fun when I hear a voice behind me say, “He is just adorable, I remember when my son was that age, don’t worry sweetie, it gets easier.”

I didn’t think we sounded like we where having any difficulty, I smiled, despite the fact this girl had called me sweetie and we moved on. My little man brought up Spam, we both made a face and he acted like he was gagging. I told him to go bother his real mother.

“Little ones can be such a handful can’t they?” comes the voice again. I nodded in agreement and put a can of Spam in the cart just for the shock value of it. “My son was such a picky eater when he was young.” says the voice. I looked up to see a woman with a little boy not much older than the one I was dragging along with me. She asked what grade my son was in.

“Fourth.” I am not great with real life social interaction, I think I was supposed to ask her what grade her son was in. I didn’t, so after looking at me with great expectancy for what seemed like forever, she told me her son was in the sixth grade. I smiled and nodded. I think I was supposed to say something again.

I grabbed another can of Spam. My son told me to go and bother my real child. I don’t know where he gets that kind of sarcasm from. I tried to move on but Chatty Cathy began to tell me all about when her little Sam Man was that age. Hello strange lady in the canned goods aisle, it was only TWO years ago. She told me I should cherish every second because, well, just look at how fast they grow.

I nodded in agreement, again, pretty sure I was supposed to say something. I grabbed yet another can of Spam. My little Mikey Wikey started laughing so hard I thought he would wet himself. I was hoping she would move on, at this point I was praying she would move on. No. Such. Luck.

She ruffled Sam Man’s hair, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Just wait until he gets older, you’ll look at people with younger kids and it will bring back so many memories.” Then she sighs – she actually sighs a nostalgic little sigh while looking into the air as if she was watching a silent movie based upon the many years of parenting she’d already put behind her.

I guess the show was over because she floated back down to earth and asked me if I was planning on having any more children. I couldn’t help but laugh, I shook my head to indicate the negative. I didn’t think I could take anymore, this girl was making me nuts. Seriously nutso. I had three cans of Spam in my cart for goodness sake!

I smiled and told her I really needed to get going so I could get home in time to feed the kids. Oops. I said too much. “Oh, you have another little one? Is it a boy or a girl?” OMIGOSH I AM GOING TO GO INSANE!

I said both actually, I have two more boys and a girl. She looked down at my son and asked him how he liked being a big brother. My wonderfully witty little troll looked up at her and said “Me is da baby brudder.” Now I felt like I was going to pee my pants just a little.

The look on her face was priceless, “Oh, how old are they?” I swear she was looking at me like I was getting ready to tell her some colossal lie.

“Seventeen, fifteen and fourteen . . . that would be in years, not months.” That was rude wasn’t it? Oh well, no matter, like I said, conversational etiquette is not one of my strengths. I thought that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.

“I didn’t realize you where that old!” She put a little too much emphasis on the word that for my liking. I’m not that old . . . I guess I should take it as a compliment right? Truth is, I thought she looked older than me. She began to walk away and I swear to you, her Sam Man asked for Spam! Yet another priceless look spread itself across her face and I said, “Don’t worry sweetie, it gets easier.”

Ahhhhh . . . Back to dinner. Anyone know any good recipes for Spamburgers?

Call Grandma-1-1!!

Jun30

I am so very glad I kept notes while my children were growing up.

It has it all … Drama, suspense, humor, violence, action and underwear – Today’s episode is, I Could Have Died!

All siblings argue right? I mean they all get into nasty little fights over who goes first, whose turn it is to take out the trash and so on, right? Every home with more than one child is filled with screams of “I can’t hear the T.V because so and so is breathing too hard” or “He’s copying me” – “He’s copying me,” right?

I hear these little tuffs about 800 times a day but sometimes their disagreements seem to border on the bizarre. I awoke one morning to a hysterical, screaming, red-faced, teenage girl at the foot of my bed shouting something about a sock. By the time I’d defied gravity and pulled myself into a sitting position, she was bolting out the door screaming about killing someone.

I fell back hard onto my pillow and waited for the screaming to end. It didn’t. The screams turned to shrieks with intermittent name calling and were soon joined by another equally loud voice trying to be heard over the first one. The word brat was said 47 times, the phrase “I wish I was an only child” was answered with a belligerent “Me too . . . Someone else’s!” I contemplated intervening, but that whole gravity thing was still too much deal with so I decided to wait for someone to come in wounded or complete silence to begin bouncing off the walls.

Neither happened, the fight dragged on and before long, innocent parties were pulled into it. The youngest of the four fell to the floor with a thud and was now among the chorus of ear-splitting noise and the oldest, trying out his, I’m a man now, do what I say, voice was soon wrestling one of the combatants to the floor. I heard a helpless voice screaming about not being able to breathe so I again defied the gravity weighing me down and raced in to pull my 175 pound son off of my 100 pound son. I picked up the smallest one who was still sprawled out on the floor in the exact same position and place he apparently landed in, and moved him to the safety of the couch.

The hormonal teenage girl I mentioned was now sobbing her heartbreaking tale to her big brother with so much exaggeration I half expected to hear “And the award for best outburst in a drama goes to . . .” I put an ice pack on what I soon found out was a fake injury and went to untangle the mess before me and find out who really did what to whom.

Each had their own unique and equally heartbreaking story to tell. I make it a rule not to believe anyone anymore. The first child relayed this yarn to me:

“I was in my bed totally asleep and he just came in without even knocking, as usual, and told me it was time to get up so I said I didn’t want to and so he said I had too and then he ripped my covers off and said – I see London I see France I see someone’s underpants – and I said GET OUT about a million times and he grabbed my sock and pulled and he KNOWS I have a hurt toe so he did it on purpose. I threw my horse at him and he said I was a jerk and threw horsey out of the room.” Then she burst into a new round of crocodile tears.

Second child’s turn:

“NONE of that is true and you KNOW it! She told me last night not to let her sleep in so she could watch a show that came on early and so I went in to wake her up like she said and she got all mad and threw a horse at me so I threw it out the door and she tried to kick me so I grabbed her sock and it came off, I saw her underwear and said put your pants on and she said I was a jerk!”

Innocent Party # 1:

“I didn’t even do anything, I just came in and turned on the T.V. and she screamed at me and said she didn’t want to hear the noise because she was trying to sleep and then he turned it up real loud and she said turn it down and I did so he pushed me down and I could have DIED.”

Innocent Party #2:

“He pushed him so I tackled him.”

I went back to my room thinking my interruption would be sufficient to stop the battle, but as usual, I was wrong. There were now sounds of an actual fight between the two oldest boys and my daughter was screaming “Go get Mommy! Go get Mommy!”, the youngest sprints to my room screaming “Call Grandma one-one! Call Grandma one-one!” Something he’d heard on a television show I think.

His plea was so loud everyone stopped. A silent moment and then a round of laughter filled the hall. Who needs 911 when the fear of Grandma knowing what a troll you really are is all we need in case of an emergency such as this! I can’t say there where no more fights that day, everybody who has more than one child would know I was lying, but it did turn out to be a pretty good day.

The truth about the pretty princess.

Jun29

There is an unmistakable distinction between little boys and little girls that goes well beyond biology. Daughters and sons can be very different creatures. I’ve had the honor of raising both, the girl child is my topic of discussion today. Before you think you know where I’m going with this, I would like to say I’ll not be writing all about sugar and spice and everything nice. Whoever came up with that little ditty could not have raised a girl. I won’t bore you with cutsie tales of fancy dolls and tea parties or any other precious and precocious anecdotes pertaining to the pandering of princesses.

Darling daughters can indeed be sweet and lovable, but there is often a motive behind it. I don’t care how perfect a parent thinks their little angel is, they would have her institutionalized if they could get into her head for five minutes. Girls are smart and cunning. They can generally think circles around boys, and sadly, sometimes parents as well. Most of them perfect the dirty look before they’ve reached their first birthday. Girls have mood swings from birth that increase in intensity as they grow and mature. One minute you’re invading their privacy if you dare ask something too personal, such as, what did you do in school today? and you run the risk of being accused of not caring if you don’t ask.

They can tell a fib like they where the inventors of deception while looking innocent and sounding so convincing a mother can actually believe her sweetie-pie didn’t get into the lipstick she sees smeared all over her daughters arms and legs. A little lady can be as quiet as a church mouse or as loud as an entire herd of oxen. She can command attention or she can become invisible in a crowded room. This sometimes troll-like princess is a confident and curious little creature, she will boldly take what is not to be taken and has the ability to make you feel guilty about it when she is caught.

When my own troll princess was still quite young I decided to read a couple of books on the care and keeping of girls, but quickly came to the conclusion they where either, A. Written by men. B. Written by childless women or C. Written by a teenage girl to confuse and bewilder the reader. In one book in particular, I think the author had split personalities. The first chapter talked about the unbreakable bond a mother and daughter can share, and the second chapter discussed why they might never have a close relationship with each other. The fourth chapter explained how to talk to your young princess in ways that will get her to open up, and the fifth chapter concluded you cannot actually converse with her on an emotional level. By the time I got to the seventh chapter entitled, A Young Woman’s Privacy, I decided to sneak a peek at chapter eight. It was entitled, How to Spy on Your Daughter. I quickly added it to my garage sale corner of the closet.

Another title caught my eye in the bookstore one afternoon, Your Daughter, Your Friend, I skimmed through the pages and was not surprised to find it included advice such as, If your daughter says she just wants to be alone, leave her to her thoughts. Personally, in my experience, both as a woman and someone who has lived with a female child, this can be bad advice. To a female, the words leave me alone can mean a multitude of things. The statement can mean, Don’t leave me alone, or, I need to talk, or, I need to be held, or, Walk away now or I will make your life miserable for as long as humanly possible. You are playing the equivalent to russian roulette if you dare try to figure out what she means.

If you leave her alone she could accuse you of not caring about her feelings. If you ask her what’s wrong she could accuse you of butting in, and if you try to comfort her with a hug she could accuse you of being condescending. Trust me, I know. My moody teen queen and I played many times. I didn’t always guess right. I found slipping five dollars under the door was the right answer.

When a mother and daughter even look like they are going to spar, the men and small animals of the house should take cover. Everyone knows a woman wants to have the last word, so a tiff between a woman who is used to having the last word (the mother) and the young woman practicing the art of getting in the last word (the daughter) can last hours longer than need be.

Few subjects can cause more trouble than clothing, hairstyles, room upkeep, boys, make-up, siblings, homework, chores . . . actually, I guess anything could become the topic of a heated debate. Debate is good. Debate is healthy. Perhaps the roller coaster ride a mother and daughter embark upon together has a greater purpose than meets the eye. I suppose in many ways it allows the young girl to learn to express herself, to stand up for her rights and learn to never let her voice go unheard. A mother can see her little girl growing strong, knowing she will be the kind of woman who can command the respect of those in her life.

A mother daughter relationship is a fragile thing; they put each other on pedestals and then occasionally try to knock each other off. They rarely succeed of course, but if one of them should happen to actually take a tumble, the other one will be there to catch them. Some of the greatest friendships are forged during the turbulent years a woman and her young shadow share a home. If they are lucky though, when wings have sprouted and the nest is only a place to visit, husbands will be alone and unarmed in the battle arena and victory will be attained on a daily basis . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Boys, boys, boy-oh-boy, boys!

Jun29

If you have men of any age in your house, or plan on having them in the future, I encourage you to read this, perhaps study it, maybe even commit small morsels of it to memory. If after you have pondered it, you still decide to have creatures of the opposite sex in your home, you will at least know, in some small detail, what to expect. Those of you already residing with members of the Geneous Manus Species, you will understand and can add in your own chapter or two. As a matter of fact, start your own book, help others in need.

** DISCLAIMER – I totally made that up. Geneous Manus is in no way intended to be considered an actual scientific term, any similarity to the word genius should be ignored. **

Let me preface this little essay of mine by saying I have nothing against men. I love the men in my life. Sometimes though, they perplex me. They seem to live right on the borders of common sense, logic and deductive reasoning. They almost get it, but just can’t seem to grasp it. It’s like watching a dog trying to lap up the last drink out of a tall glass. It’s sort of sad, yet funny at the same time.

I live with four male humans. They vary in age. The youngest of my boys at present time is eighteen, and the oldest is approaching forty-seven with reluctance. Sometimes, there is not much difference between them.

** DISCLAIMER – I do not claim to actually have a forty-five year old child. The eldest of this all male quartet I sarcastically refer to as one of the boys, would be the aforementioned children’s father. **

I always wanted a son. I prayed and prayed for a baby boy when I found out I would be blessed with new life. My prayers where answered when they placed my precious little man in my arms. It wasn’t long after that beautiful moment that he peed all over me for the first time. I soon found out baby boys pee on their mothers often. As soon as you wise up and figure out how to shield yourself, they begin to master projectile vomiting.

I’ll never forget the first time I witnessed this phenomena. I placed my sleepy eyed prince in his crib and stood there, gazing upon my precious babe with all the awe of a new mother, when suddenly this massive geyser opened up and before I could so much as shield my eyes I was dripping with the sweet mother’s milk I’d lovingly fed to him only moments before. I was horrified and more than a little worried because the amount of ooze that shot out of his tiny little mouth was in no way proportionate to the amount of milk I knew he’d ingested. I’d never seen anything like it. Well, maybe once in a movie, but I thought that was just Hollywood magic. If projectile vomiting had been an Olympic sport he would have medaled. I was totally unprepared to see my infant child play out a scene from the Exorcist.

** DISCLAIMER – I have never actually seen the movie referred to in the previous sentence, I have taken the liberty of using it as an example because I could not think of anything more original. **

The mystery of a young boy’s bodily functions may never be solved. I don’t think anyone is even trying to figure them out. Thank goodness they outgrow it. No, that’s a lie. I just lied to you. They do not outgrow it, they perfect it. It’s not long before they are no longer content to pee on you, the parent, they often choose to pee anywhere and everywhere. When they graduate from diapers to big boy pants their target of choice is the toilet seat, the wall behind the toilet or the floor around it and sometimes the dog.

** DISCLAIMER – It was my neighbor’s kid that sullied the dog. The only living things my boys have ever peed on where my husband and I. Oh, and one time one of them tinkled on the neighbor kid **

**** DISCLAIMER TO DISCLAIMER – I made that up as well. My boys never tinkled on the neighbor kid. It was his word against theirs . . . I just made that up too. None of it happened. My kids never did anything like that. I am becoming such a liar. ****

Anyway, by the time I’d potty trained my third son I’d logged more hours scrubbing down toilets and bathroom floors than a prisoner serving a life sentence. I just can’t understand it. God made it easy for them; all they have to do is point and shoot right? How hard can it be to aim?

I actually learned a valuable lesson from my youngest son one afternoon. He was four, he’d been in the bathroom for quite some time and since that always fills me with a sense of dread, I opened the door to find out what he was doing when he didn’t answer. He was peeing. I should have closed the door, I didn’t. I opened my big mouth and asked him why he’d been in there so long.

Here is the lesson I learned; do not question a young boy while he is peeing. Why? Because some of them cannot simply turn their head to look at you, they must turn their whole body. Needless to say, I had to sterilize my feet and throw out my socks.

They also begin to find humor in the various substances and sounds they emit. I will not even take the time to cover this topic. There are very few ways to delicately explain the male rituals that take place concerning these things. Let’s just say the females in the household are made to listen, smell and hear about them on a regular basis.

** DISCLAIMER – Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, girls do it too. Whatever, I’m harping on the boy children, girls are in the next chapter.**

The male gender does not always seem to understand the necessity of clean clothing. If allowed, they will wear the same socks for a week. Pants and shirts absent of obvious stains and emit low odor vapors are still acceptable to them. They do not feel holes, tears or loose hems are of any consequence. They will wear torn jeans that show off their skivvies and consider the undergarment as simply a patch covering the hole from the inside.

The male (Geneous Manus) eating ritual is another thing that’s boggled the minds of mothers and wives everywhere. Many of them will fill their mouths so they have food stored in either cheek while they attempt chew what is stuck in the middle. Once that is gone, they will enjoy the food from one cheek and then the other. They will fill their forks and spoons with so much food they have to open their mouths wider than looks humanly possible to stuff it in. They will eat food left out overnight, they believe wholeheartedly in the “five second rule” and they will continue to eat well after they are full if there is still food on the table. They will eat cereal out of mixing bowls with a soup ladle if the appropriate dishes are not clean.

When they begin to mature and care more about their appearance they will use deodorant beneath a less than fresh shirt. They will trim their fingernails and toenails, leaving the clippings wherever they may fall, and they will wipe the crumbs from their shirt before leaving the table. Again, leaving them where they fall.

** DISCLAIMER – While there is no actual scientific evidence that men mature, I have personally chosen to believe it can happen. It gives me some hope to cling to.**

Both the young and the old alike will leave their shoes anywhere it is certain a woman will trip over them. When they finally decide a garment is no longer wearable they will deposit it on the floor just a few feet away from the hamper. They have been known to watch the weather channel for hours if the remote is more than arms length away, and no matter how long they have lived in their home, they never know where anything is.

Whether it be a husband, son, father, grandfather or stray neighbor kid, you will find they all exhibit these same habits and traits to one degree or another. Without them I suppose life would be boring. What would women talk about if the world were perfect? We need the male species to keep us entertained, to keep our cars running and our sinks unclogged. For these and many others reasons we keep them around. We marry them, we give birth to them, we love them, we tolerate them and we thank God for them.

** DISCLAIMER – I know women are capable of doing these things but it makes men feel important to think we can’t. If they feel important they are better behaved. **

Someone just went into the bathroom so I must gather my cleaning supplies. I wonder if it would overload their circuitry if I made them clean it themselves. This should be fun . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Fantasy, fruit loops & mindless drivel.

Jun29

Here I sit, with a sink full of dishes and a floor in dire need of vacuuming, thinking of nothing but mindless drivel. That in itself is not unusual, thinking of mindless drivel that is, not neglecting my chores. I am never mindless nor neglectful, or maybe I am, I didn’t used to be. No matter, it’s not like I can be objective on the subject. I’m fairly certain I just contradicted myself, 2 points for mindlessness.

I shouldn’t refer my daily housework endeavors chores. The word chore implies something you do to get your allowance. Somehow I doubt I’ll be getting five bucks at the end of the week.

I’m not sure what I could even buy for five dollars these days. Maybe a new hair brush. Mine hurts my head if I’m not careful, half those little colored balls have fallen off the tips of the plastic bristles or been plucked off, one by one in the night by some unseen maker of mischief. Of course, it could simply be that it’s old, I tend to hang on to items past their usefulness date. Not much of a spending spree I suppose.

It doesn’t matter, I hate my hair most of the time anyway. If the whole world was just bald I’d be a happy woman. I’d just shave it all off, but I’d probably have a misshapen head or something and look in the mirror every day and complain about that.

I’m not much of a complainer. I’m not. Besides, I don’t think anyone around here really listens to me all that often. My husband. Now he’s a complainer. Does anyone else know how hard it is to be married to a perfectionist? I used to be one, I’m over it now. So over it.

My husband is a great guy once you get past the fact that he’s a man. Don’t get me wrong, no man haters here, I have nothing against men. I love men, love, love, love them. I gave birth to three of them. Can you imagine what my bathroom looks like? I don’t get it, that thing cannot be that difficult to aim. Point and shoot boys.

When they where little a friend of mine suggested putting fruit loops in the potty to use as tinkle targets. It was great until I realized no one had flushed yet the soggy little rings of artificially flavored sweetness had disappeared, (insert collective eww here). I still have no idea who the culprit was.

My kids have always been really picky eaters, well, if you don’t count the fruit loop thing. They found some chocolate peanut butter in the store the other day and talked me into buying it. I have their undying adoration for the rest of the week now.

I bought some tea for myself, they say it’s relaxing. I don’t know who they are but I listen to them sometimes. I bought the Sleepy Time tea. I sipped a cup while reading a few chapters in my new book, the one I got for my birthday two years ago, and drifted off to sleep. It was wonderful until I awoke about an hour later with an extremely urgent need to use the powder room. A cup of tea will make you pee. They don’t print that part on the label.

I would have woken up anyway. I always do. I haven’t slept through the night in over twenty-four years. First it was late night feedings and diaper changes, then the bad dream phase. When they did sleep through the night I would wake up worried because they’d not woken and rush in to check on them. Just when I’d get used to it, a new bad dream phase would begin. Now late night television, video game marathons and the occasional bad dream often keep me from having those restful nights I so deserve.

I have a dream, well, more like a fantasy . . .

I envision myself waking around noon, gliding to the lilac scented tub that’s been drawn for me and submerging myself in warm bubbles. My husband comes in with a breakfast tray filled with fruits and champagne. He tells me the kids have gone out for the day and he will be in the garage building me bookshelves, I smile and dismiss him. I towel off and drape myself in a silken robe. Gracefully, I make my way into my spotless living room and do a Sound of Music type of spin before sinking onto the couch for a well deserved nap. I awaken to the cherubic laughter of my family as they return home. My husband retrieves the television remote for me before he begins to prepare dinner. After I’ve eaten my fill, I escape the pressures of the long day in a hot shower, then slide into bed and dream the sweetest of dreams.

But, that is a rather far stretch from reality. Far, far stretch. I live in the real world with popcorn under my feet, I didn’t even know we had popcorn. I guess I’d better lug out the old Dirt Devil and get to work. I can drivel in silence while I scrub the pans . . .

Crystal R. Cook