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.