What to Do, What to Do...

It's 6:47 in the morning, and I'm actually giddy. Woke up 45 minutes ago with the excitement of a 4-year-old on Christmas Day. The air outside is crisp, and a wee bit of sun is just about to peak over my neighbor's stone wall with the promise of something truly special happening within the next few hours. I have been waiting for this day since oh, just about the end of May. Uh-huh: you guessed it. It's Matt's first day back at school!

Know what this means?! Loosely translated, it means that starting today, I will have three straight hours to myself every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Three hours during which Miss Michelle and Miss Caren, Matt's preschool teachers, will work their magic on my child, saying cute things like "1-2-3, Eyes on Me" and "indoor voice." And unlike when I try my hand at this at home, Matt will turn to them with doe eyes and an ever-so-slight angelic smile and obey. Without complaint. Or whining. Those are powerful women.

Of course, this also means that I'll be at home, and I'll be wondering what the heck I'm to do with myself. For someone who CONSTANTLY has a running list in her head of tasks that must be completed, you'd think I'd have no problem strategizing and making some serious, productive use of my time. For Pete's sake, when Matt's in my care I develop a nervous eye-twitch thinking of all the things I should be doing when we're making chalk portraits on the patio, but somehow, that long, long list disappears when I return home after drop off, open the door, and put the keys on the table. The possibilities become endless. I could run through three loads of laundry (well, maybe two) from wash and dry to fold. I could dust every corner of this house so my husband will stop writing his name in the film on the TV. I could pre-order my Christmas cards. Yes, I could, but I do not.

What I do do is sit with coffee in hand and contemplate the universe, or at least my little portion of it. I dream of tearing through Matt's bedroom and his playroom, weeding out all those little nothing toys that seem to pop out of nowhere and multiply (yes, I take full responsibility for the McDonald's ones). I fantasize about emptying closets that have become the resting places for all the dearly departed junk we've collected over the past few seasons. I envision myself picking out the perfect wall color and possibly painting the kitchen and maybe even the family room, or at the very least taking a Magic Eraser to the walls and ridding myself of some scuff marks. And I delude myself into thinking that this is the year I'll turn my home into an age-appropriate, Martha Stewart-like haunted house (Matt would love that) in preparation for a spooktacular October, complete with cling-on window showcases of bats, leafless trees, and crows (that's my plan every fall...it never happens).

My daydreaming takes me from one thought to another and back again. I punctuate it here and there with making a bed, or folding a few little pairs of pants from the one load I did throw in, and checking the pantry for what I might need for dinner. Before I know it, a few hours have passed. I've now reached the bottom of my cup of joe, and while taking that last sip of a drink that's now cold, I wonder how my little guy's doing. I picture seeing that cute face as I round the corner to his classroom in just an hour or so, and the countdown to his return begins. I'm saving productivity for another morning. This one was just about dreaming.

Having a Moment, or Not

One random day earlier this month, after a very long and trying afternoon, Matthew and I were finally getting into a solid groove by the time the just-before-bed routine rolled around. I finished up dinner, got the little man into the shower off the kitchen (I don't need to watch his every move, but I like to hear what he's up to), and straightened up the war zone that had become my house just a few hours earlier, throwing every kind of toy and book into the nearest appropriate basket, bin or box. I let him play his customary write-a-story-on-the-shower-door-with-a-squirt-gun game for a few minutes before I ventured in to shampoo, soap, and rinse.

Water off. I wrapped the boy in a towel, and while I carried him upstairs to his room, Matt requested that for the remainder of the evening, I refer to him as a troll. Ah, okay. So I powdered the troll (I have a thing for the smell of Johnson's baby powder at bedtime; I'm sure he'll be dodging talcum squirts from his Mom well into his teen years), put on his jammies, and let him watch a show, then brought him back into his room for some quiet time.

We most likely read some sort of brainwashing material about staying in his own bed all night ("Back to Bed, Ed" by Sebastien Braun is my new favorite) or sharing, played a little bit, got him his requisite seltzer-and-a-snack, brushed his teeth, and then I tucked him in. He smelled so sweet, and his face was cuter-than-cute that night: eyes a soft green and his little brown hair all fluffy from the shower. He looked up at me and said "Mom, sing me a lullaby." Seriously, could it get any more "Little House"?

So I sang him "You Are My Sunshine," and as he usually does, he sang along softly with me. After such a crazy day, it was a moment that was so welcome. I was trying not to get all weepy while looking at this beautiful little boy who was singing these sweet words back to me. I was so in love. And then it happened. We finished our duet, and he paused for a moment. I could have sworn that a Disney-like twinkle reflected off his eye. He looked up at me with a smile, touched my cheek with his palm, and said, "Mom, I wish I had Leo's mother." Yup. That's right. With that, it was lights out.

And it just makes me think: this is what motherhood is all about. Looking into your child's eyes and connecting in a way only you and he or she can, thinking this is my life's purpose, this child right here. Then being knocked on your arse the next minute, and having to laugh through it all. Because if you didn't have a sense of humor before becoming a mommy, you darn well better find one now.