My youngest daughter is awake and it’s 2am. She’s sitting next to me at the kitchen table, eating her weight in Cap’n Crunch Berries. She and I have polished off the box in a little over 3 days. I say that about lots of things…pudding cups, cereal, baked goods that come in a box, baked goods made at home. But really? It wasn’t my kids who made a dent in it. Except in this case. She’s 23 pounds of sweetened corn goodness.
She poked me about a half hour ago. I had been asleep for about 10 minutes at that point. I retired at midnight after sitting in front of a blinking cursor, not knowing what to say. I should know better. Once it was dark and I was attempting to study the inside of my eyelids, I thought of several dozen things to write. I did some mental sparring with myself and found myself to be the wittiest person I know. (I’m not even sure that’s a word: wittiest) I always have the smartest thing to say, hours after the moment. I could have pages upon pages of “I should have said…”.
But here we sit. She with a spoon in her left hand and her right hand stuck squarely in the milk. I don’t have a bib so this will also require a jammie change. If she weren’t so stinkin cute, I’d be all kinds of cranky. The truth is that I should have written before bed. Anything. It’s a ritual much like brushing my teeth and swishing with Crest mouthrinse (Seriously? Get some. It makes chunks of plaque come out of my mouth and into the sink. But rinse the sink right away because otherwise, if you try to wipe it out in the morning it’s much like day-old rice krispies in the sink. I wish I was kidding.). I need this. I need it like the mega-multi vitamin and the age defying facewash that’s part of my night. I need to write. This? Is my therapy. This is my silent support group.
I was given pause earlier because nothing remarkable happened today. The kids weren’t little beyotches. The house is picked up. Nothing smells like meat juice and bad breath. There isn’t a fire, blizzard, storm or flood. Nobody puked, peed or became incontinent at an inappropriate time. The cash hemmorage seems to be stable (critical, but stable). My list is getting shorter. The inlaws are coming on Thursday and leaving on Saturday (3 days…fish and family…). So yeah, nothing remarkable.
But I laid in bed earlier (like an hour ago) and realized that I shouldn’t worry that it was an unremarkable day. That I started writing for me. And this is for me. This is my outlet. And some days are just like that. And it’s okay. Because this is for me. And I should know better.