Me: “WHAT? JESUS GOD, MAX. WHAT.”
Max: “I’m awake.”
Sunday morning. 4:54 am.
There is the smallest sliver of light blinding me through the gap between our blackout curtains, the only indication that morning is coming.
Well, the light… and the 4 year old tapping on my face.
Women confess times they felt like a bad mum. Post continues after video.
Religious people: “Sunday is the blessed day of rest.”
Me: “WHEN AM I GOING TO GET A BLESSED DAY OF REST??”
I use the sliver of retina-piercing light to find the pajama pants I discarded at 11:57pm, after I spent the previous two hours cleaning up the hurricane that is my house.
They are on the floor; I only have to step on two Hot Wheels, a Lego, and a dog to find them.
I follow Max, taking the stairs one at a time because I have a tendency to fall, and it’s FRICKING DARK STILL.
The only reason I’m even willing to entertain this bullshit is because 5am is a no-good time for Max to build a wooden block skyscraper, which will inevitably crumble, waking his sister; OR an equally poor time to chase the cat, which will end in a wound that invites a shitshow of hysteria.
He wants to watch TV, but we have a strict “no TV until 7:30 am” rule.
We made this rule, thinking, like the ingenious parents we are, that a delayed opportunity to watch Mighty Machines for the 763th time would encourage his overzealous brain to give in to the darkness and go the hell back to sleep.
I want to drink my now barely-lukewarm tea — ginger-peach with honey — in solitude, sitting in my favorite green chair, which is in the center of the living room, despite being shredded by the cat that Max likes to torment when I’m too busy picking up toys to notice.