Wednesday, April 25, 2013: Define Therapeutic.

Dear Babies,

I was ambushed last night at 2:00 a.m.

Woken from a deep, drooling-on-pillow sleep by a direct clock to the head: Grover, in a fire truck, being swung onto the bed like a gauntlet.

“MAMA!”

{WUUUAGH!} (or some other unintelligible sound to signify complete surprise)

“MAMA, TV!”

Before I had a chance to realize what was happening you two were in my bed, in your positions on either side. As you assumed your post, Baby Boy, you grabbed a picture off the wall of four Adirondack chairs facing the Sound taken at Fire Island. “Mama, chairs!” you were shouting. “Mama, oooh, chairs, big chairs, nice chairs, ooh,” your sister cooed in her typical live newscast reporting in the voice of Betty Boop.

“Yes, chairs,” I found myself saying. It was 2:07 a.m.

It was so hot last night but I knew you guys, my tiny senior citizens, would not like the window open. “Mama, cold,” you say of any open window even slightly cracked, wrapping your arms around yourselves with a shudder. I tell you you guys need to toughen up. I took my pants off under the covers–“Mama, no pants!”–and into my  flat back with my arms outstretched on no pillow position, and laid there profusely sweating and staring up at the ceiling for what felt like hours, like Ewan McGregor’s character in “Trainspotting,” but totally different.

It’s nearly five p.m. now and I am at Nana’s. It took us all day trying to get out the door to get here (there was the fall down the stairs, the bloody nose, the mystery–somehow you returned from school without a shirt, the multiple demands from snacks to HEADBAND!, the announcement once we FINALLY were ready and strapped into car seats, “Mama, I pooped! Change!”). I had my first thing to eat all day an hour ago, a bagel with cream cheese, a breakfast and lunch meal that reminds one of the technical aspect of “br-unch,” not the long lingering kind with bloody marys.

I have to go to Costco. And Rite Aid. And Trader Joe’s. I am dressed to exercise, but am I really going to head to Lucille Roberts, Nana’s gym, now and go around and around on an elliptical? Wouldn’t that just all suck?

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It would suck.

So I’m not doing it.

Any of it.

I’m in the basement now on my laptop, because for whatever reason, writing (aka, beating myself up mentally facing rejection and staring at a blinking cursor), helps.

I wish I could quit it, I wish I could lay down and go to sleep right now instead. But, I can’t. I guess that says something. Maybe, I don’t know, the importance of knowing yourself, and your therapy.

Love,

Mom

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