In my life, every waking moment is spent in a whirlwind. Noise is all around me in the forms of singing, humming, blabbering, screaming, or fighting. Right now as I type, it’s 5:52 A.M., and I can hear my toddler crying from the playpen in our basement. He’s down there so he doesn’t wake up my four- and six-year-olds.
Within minutes of waking up, my normal day begins with a train of thought something like this:
Turn on the stove. Get the eggs and butter out of the fr—Oh, the dog needs to be fed.
“Eliza, please feed Abbey!”
Man I have to pee. Why is the fridge door open? Right, butter and eggs.
“Mommy, can I eat dog food for breakfast?”
“No, Zach, dog food is not for humans. We’ve had this conversation before.”
I can’t forget to call the pediatrician today—“MAH-AHM, Ethan is eating the dog food and splashing the dog water!”
“I’ve told you a million times to keep Ethan out of the room when you feed the dog!” Why do I smell something burning? The pan is smoking. Turn it off.
“Kids, why didn’t you get dressed before you came downstairs? Please go back up and put on some clothes unless you want to go to school in your pajamas.”
“Yea, pajama day at school!”
Ignore them. Getting dressed. Now that would be nice. Maybe this morning I’ll make time to wash my face and brush my teeth before heading out th—
“AAAAhhhh! I was first!”1