And
then there were two. Or four. Depends on how you want to look at it. Regardless, there were more mouths to
feed and more diapers to buy. And
change. Oh dear. But so he went. He was as dreamy as dreamy coud be and
he literally, quite literally, completed their family. Life was
adorable. Totally frigging
cute. A million dollar lot, so it
was said. Thankfully, 2 healthy
babes, one boy and one girl.
When
she thought about writing, so was torn.
She felt anyone could do salacious. Seems that Chelsea Handler and EL james were already killing
it in that genre. Did she really
want to start writing smut? Detailing erotica for the stay at home ladies?
Probably not. She wasn’t going to
sell it to those less fortunate.
She was going to continue to write about everything else. Leave the gory details to the
pros.
So
she stuck to the story, minus the ick factor and the ideas just flowed. She’d always been a natural
storyteller. Everyone told her so.
In
her free time, she caught herself daydreaming. Relaxing.
Thinking. Writing. Why confess? Not that anyone was listening, right?
There
were two annoying parts of every day.
Seven days a week, the kids had to get ready in the morning and then
they had to be convinced to sleep in the evening. WHY they needed to be convinced to do something that I’d do
in a heartbeat was beyond me. I
think that mornings were a touch worse.
I have the only kids in north America who sleep in at age of 2 and 6
respectively. This joy means that
I have to wake them at 8am and they’re as bad as teenagers. My daughter begs for 2 more
minutes. Six times. After the battle, she stays in bed and
begs me to chose her clothes for her.
Black leggings and a pink sweater.
Declined. Pink leggings and a black tshirt. No way. A
purple, sparkly dress.
Negative. Okay, fine
mom. I’ll choose. And out comes the leggings and the
floral tunic. Her outfit is
complete with suede mocosins and a glittered head band. Oh we are so screwed for high
school. My son isn’t as
horrendous. When he does wake on
his own at 6am, he shouts, “mama!
I need you!” Secretly I let
him shout that at least 3 or 4 times.
Hey, you got to hold on to something. One day he’ll be someone’s husband and he won’t be screaming
for me anymore. A mommy’s gotta
do…
Choosing
his clothes is equally ridiculous in the precious morning hours. First of all, as a toilet trained
two year old, he usually refuses underwear. This I’ve decided to allow, provided he’s allowed me to peel
off the hot pink robe he’s borrowed from his big sis. In pjs, monkey costumes and nightgowns, I shove him out the
door by 10am. Only then, and after
a $1.00 McDonalds ice coffee, does my day truly start.
And
by start I mean that I rush home to clean the breakfast dishes. Finish tidying from dinner last
night. Throw in a load of dirty
towels (made dirty from cleaning the entire box of cereal and organic milk that
the boy dropped on the kitchen floor).
Make a few beds. Work on my
music. Get dinner going. Usually by 3:30 I’m looking forward to
the distraction of chatting with other SHMs at the playground at pickup. As this is my main form of
sociailziation, the moments on the blacktop are usually relished.
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