You don't understand the aversion to sleep across the board among your kids. Given the choice, you would happily take a nap while they cleaned up the kitchen, did the laundry, and accomplished all-that-other-stuff. The problem is, they would absolutely take you up on it if you offered to switch roles. And as tempting as a few extra zzz's sound, the prospect of a three year old handling your delicates and a six year old and 10 month old unloading the dishwasher is just a bit too scary.
You can't prove it, but you swear your 10 month old poops on purpose every time you put her in her bed, just to get out of sleeping.
In lieu of cleaning the floors, you have put socks/slippers on so you wouldn't notice when you stepped on all of those crumbs/sticky juice drips/other-unidentifiable-gritty chunks. The floors will always wait on you.
As if they're on some sort of lunar cycle like old women friends, your kids all seem to poop at the same time, inevitably during dinner preparations. (Seriously, do they plan that?)
You've come to the conclusion that motherhood is a degenerative disease. If you never suffered from memory-loss before having kids, you will afterward.
You will never again fold an entire load of laundry in one sitting, unload an entire dishwasher, clip a complete coupon leaflet, finish reading/writing an entire email, as life's little emergencies always happen in the middle of doing such things. And you know what, you're kind of okay with that. (If you're not yet, give it a couple of years. It becomes your norm.)
After eating macaroni and cheese, almost exclusively, for years, your child will one day decide to never eat it again. Conversely, after turning their nose up at bananas for years, your child will suddenly decide that these are her favorite food. These are just a few of the mysteries of a child's palate.
In a very rare attempt to catch up on some television with your husband, you sequester your children in your bedroom with a movie of their choosing. Halfway through the first episode of Band of Brothers (yes, we're ten years late watching it), you realize that your six year old boy has been watching from around the corner. Horrified by what he might have seen, you send him back to your bedroom amid serious protests that he "really likes that movie".
There is nothing funnier than hearing a three year old begin a sentence with "Actually...." (Except maybe when it starts with "I can't believe...")
As much as it pains you to see your children sick, you relish the cuddle time it affords more than words can express.
A Little Carpet Magic and a Lotta Cabinet Love
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