Sleep. What is this odd ritual you speak of?


Most days I wake at 7AM to get kids off to school, start coffee making, and set my laptop up at the bar in the kitchen (after wiping away the leftover particles of whatever popular challenge the kids tried to video the night before ie. Cinnamon, nutmeg, oregano…) After dropping the kids at school, I come back, start a load of never ending laundry, make a cup of Italian sweet cream coffee, and begin edits on the novel of the week.

When the dryer stops, I have to restart it at least twice to dry a load of clothes. (And yes, I’ve purchased and used a lint lizard, replaced thermostats, and taken the back off the dryer. I’m sure the times my teens used it didn’t help matters, for I found a half a pencil, a popsicle stick, and some sort of car part back there. Yeah, I’m asking the same question. How the heck did those big things make it past a lint trap?)

Anyway, after a long day of back and forth between laundry and my wonderful characters, I’m exhausted. And it’s only 3PM.

Help with homework–translated: do the homework for them because kids go braindead by 4PM.

I start dinner–wash all the accumulated dishes from dinner until 5PM because teens have this uncanny talent to become invisible when dishwashing time approaches.

I do get to catch up on social media while the macaroni is boiling.

I restart the dryer for the third time because that was an effing heavy-a$$ blanket. I drink the fourth cup of coffee.

Of course, I make my own plate and holler for everyone else.

Begging someone to wash dinner dishes does no good because they forgot to do homework or wash the cat or something really, extremely important.

Bring on the dishpan hands.

From there, I yell forty-two-million times for people to get showers and find their own beds–around here they huddle in the same room to listen to music and catch up on the days’ drama until the wee hours if tomorrow morning, if I don’t become the bedtime police.

I stub my toe on a clarinet, a plate and fork someone didn’t have energy to take to the kitchen, and limp toward my bed.

When I get there, I’m too keyed up to sleep, so hours of television or reading wind me down.

Nanny 911. Feel free to stop by anytime and tell me what I’m doing wrong.

I take cell phones. I yell. I talk sweetly. If they remain in the floor after I’ve given fair warning, I throw valuables away. At wits end in Suburbia.

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