The Sweet Life

There are days when I wake up, the sun is shining and it is just gorgeous outside. I take a deep breath, think to myself, "Today is going to be a wonderful day" and before I can exhale, I am bombarded by screams, yells, accusations, tears, requests and demands.

Suddenly, the peaceful serene day outside seems a distant view from a small window in the storm brewing inside my house. I am suddenly sucked into the vortex of my life. It turns out, life with small children is very volatile. It should come with a hazardous materials sticker- WARNING: EVEN THE BLINK OF AN EYE PERFORMED IN THE WRONG MANOR MAY CAUSE AN EXPLOSION. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

I am convinced I should start every day armed with a haz-mat suit, chemical spill clean-up kit ( what IS that congealed substance stuck to the kitchen floor under Zoe's chair?) and a copy of The Idiot's Guide to Negotiating with Terrorists and/or Small Children. You know, just in case. It also helps to have a bleach pen, Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, stash of snacks and some baby wipes within arm's reach at all times.

The truth is, there are days I wish I could walk away from it all. Noah is six, Zoe is two and apparently that is the prime age to trigger twenty-four hour scuffles. When both of them are home, they spend 98.9% of the time fighting. Frankly, it's exhausting and I have grown weary of playing referee. It's constant, relentless and seemingly never-ending. I long for the days before children.

Once upon a time, I was a twenty-six-year-old woman. Thin, with a board-flat stomach, perky breasts, newly-married and living in England. My time was my own, spent at my leisure, reading, writing, lazily watching a movie, going on weekend jaunts to Paris and week-long tours of Italy. We took impromptu trips that didn't require planning and packing supplies, toys, food, diapers and numerous changes of clothing. Our money was ours and we both worked. There was always money in the savings account and my house was spotless. Our Friday and Saturday nights began at 10pm and we could stay out all night and sleep in the next day. I was smart and witty and knowledgeable of world events with educated opinions on them.

And now, here sits a thirty-seven-year-old woman, thicker around the middle, a saggy tummy with stretch marks from my second pregnancy, breasts- well I still have them anyway but their conditions is unspeakable, living in a house that is rarely clean for longer than five minutes with time that is never my own, weekend jaunts to the laundry room and sometimes as far as the mailbox, very little money in savings, Saturday nights that end with me not entirely sure if I fell asleep or passed out from exhaustion at 9pm, not even sure I can remember how to spell my name most days and quite certain that I just heard someone yell they were hungry, hurt, bored or angry.

So I sit, in my own little fantasy world- a small moment stolen for myself where the kids cannot penetrate- and I remember what it was like to be me, Jennifer, not me, Mommy. I was hip, young and cool. I was cute and funny and smart. I was clean and neurotically organized. Ahh... yes.... I inhale deeply and remember the sweet life before children.

But, I can't shake the feeling that something is missing in the fantasy. I take inventory. It's all there, just like it used to be. The quiet is nice. For a little while, anyway, and then it's too quiet. I still can't quite find what is missing, but then I am jolted back to reality by two small arms wrapping around my leg and the sensation of a tiny kiss on my hip followed by a quiet, small, "Doot Doo, Mommy!" ( Love you, Mommy) and then I know.