Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Etc.

It’s 7:15 am – do you know where your children are? I sure do, because I just tripped over one of them. When I tried to simply turn around.

I longed for years to hear a little voice call me “Mommy” (preferably a child of mine, otherwise that would just be weird). What I didn’t realize was that there would be days that I heard the word “Mommy” hundreds of time before breakfast. Which, around here, comes pretty freaking early.

Here’s an example: Picture dinnertime last night. It’s the time of day when sweet, endearing children turn into stark-raving crazy people. And my children weren’t that sweet and endearing to begin with. Not lately, anyway!

I was trying to slice a watermelon while the rest of dinner cooked in the oven. Paige was a train wreck (let’s just say the no-napping days aren’t going so well). She was bouncing between the kitchen bar and my side begging for pieces of watermelon. In the meantime, Blair was grabbing onto my leg yelling “Mama! Mama! Mama!”They were like little birds in the nest begging for food. (Don’t worry, I didn’t chew the watermelon before giving it to them, a la Alicia Silverstone.)

This is not a joke – they were so all over me that one of them actually pulled my shorts down. And I couldn’t even tell who was responsible. And there are only two of them.

Fast-forward to this morning. Paige seems to be broken. At least, she seems to be skipping over and over again. “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.” (Actually, as I’m typing this in her bed she is yelling at me. Informing me that “Mommy! This is not funny!” It’s a little funny…).

So, after breakfast we all went back upstairs while I got us ready for vacation. I thought the girls were watching TV playing nicely and probably looking at books while I put some laundry away in my closet.

Mind you, this is NOT a walk-in closet. We live in Broad Ripple, okay? The only person that can actually fully stand inside my closet with the doors closed and not knock anything off the hangers is Abbey. And she’s not a person, she’s a cat.

So, I’m standing at the doors of the closet and Blair is sitting on my feet. While Paige is pushing her out of the way so she can grab me around the legs and bury her face in my side. I heaved a sigh and said, (calmly, I hope), “Girls! Can I get a little freaking space?!?!?”

“Oh. Sure (pronounced ‘shu-ah’), Mommy,” Paige replied.

And she moved about three inches to the left and grabbed me around the legs again and buried her head in my bottom instead.

Oh, thanks. Much better.

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