That Peaceful Moment of Clarity

Some evenings I swear Chloe and Abram call a meeting to discuss how best to torment me.  Chloe, first you take an entire 24 pack of Popsicles into the living room.  I'll shit all the way up my back and stick my hands in it.  That should buy you enough time to eat two before she catches you.  Then, when she takes the box away, you throw a temper-tantrum.  Cry for so long that you forget what you are crying about.  Stick your bottom lip out as far as it will go and ask for a hug when you are done so that she forgets she was mad.  Ask her sweetly if you can watch an episode of Sponge Bob Pear Pear, your favorite show.  I'll be hungry by then so I'll start crying right when you ask.  This will help her decide against her better judgement.  While you watch Pear Pear I'll be extra cute while I eat my food.  I'll hold my mouth open like a bird and then pretend to chew.  It'll practically kill her.  God, I'm cute.  Mom will probably turn the TV off after one episode, because Pear Pear puts you in a foul mood.  Throw a huge temper-tantrum even if you aren't mad about it.  You've set a precedent, and now you have to stick to it.  When you are done you'll probably have to poop.  But don't tell Mama.  Do that thing where you sneak into the bathroom and take a huge dump in less than three seconds.  Don't wipe.  You never do.  Put your underwear back on inside-out and backwards and leave poopy-tracks on Dora's face.  That's hilarious.  Or,  you can just leave them off and run around the house with poop on your butt until she catches you.  That's funny, too.  Either way, you can't lose.  I won't tell on you as long as you come over and jump in circles in front of me.  Stop every now and then and say "goo goo, ga ga," and boy will I laugh.  I'll laugh so hard I'll get the hiccups, which will really piss me off... and it goes on and on.

These are the nights I check the clock about seventeen times.  I often find myself taking the kids up an hour early for a bath at 6:30 p.m.  After I yell at Chloe 15 times for drinking the bath water that her brother peed in, after Chloe screams bloody murder because she got a drop of water in her eyes and, "my eyes, my eyes, MY EYEEEEES!!!," and after Abram squeezes his own penis so hard he makes himself cry, it happens.  I have this amazing moment.  After all of that chaos and crying and laughing I have this peaceful moment of clarity. 

It starts when I cuddle Abram up to me for his final feeding of the day.  I wipe the little crusties from his eye.  He stops eating to look up at me.  He smiles.  He goes back to eating and I smile as he blissfully falls asleep.  I don't even care this time around that breastfeeding him to sleep is a bad habit.  We won't have this time for long.  I know this time to appreciate it.  I put him in his crib where, like an angel, he will sleep the remainder of the night.  I move on to Chloe. 

If she has her way I've taken her to bed.  Brush your teeth, go potty, two stories, a song, and a prayer are Daddy's rules, but she knows she can hold me hostage for much longer.  Two books always turns into four, six, eight.  I lose count.  I read her a story and then she reads one to me.  I love to just lie there with her in her big girl bed.  It is there that I notice her special characteristics.  Sometimes I see something new, and it's like God is letting me in on a little secret.  I love the way her hair falls in her face.  It tickles, so she sticks out her lips and wriggles her nose a bit.  Then, in a grand gesture, she sweeps her hair behind her shoulder with her hand.  She does it over and over again, because the fan keeps blowing her hair in her face.  I'd stop it if I weren't so damn mesmerized.  I love her soft voice.  It's always been soft, and sometimes you have to be completely still to hear what she is saying.  My favorite sound in the entire world is the sound of her reading books.  She flips the pages so carefully, deliberately.  She looks at every detail on the page and then quietly, thoughtfully, tells the story she sees.

Sometimes she sees me lying there nearly comatose.  She'll reach out, pat my face, and say, "Shhh, Mama.  Close your eyes."  Then she starts singing, "Twinkle, twinkle little star..."  Just like I do to her.  She'll ask me to sleep with her in her bed.  Or maybe we can go sleep in Mama's bed?  "You.  And me?  You.  And me?" she'll ask.  She knows I'm a sucker for pronouns.  I consider it, too, except going to sleep on her own - in her own bed - and staying put the entire night seems like the one thing we are doing totally right as parents.  And even that is up for discussion. 

So, I break free from my two-year-old hypnotist.  We say our prayers and I always, every night, give my most genuine and sincere thanks to God, though it seems futile.  For my blessings are too many to count.