I’m not a morning person. I’m not a night owl either. If you want to catch me at my peak, 2 p.m.-ish is a good time.
Obviously, I’m a round-the-clock joy to be around.
But I can do life, friends, and I do do it. I get up with Stanton and the girls. I go to bed at a reasonable hour, so that I’m somewhat well-rested by sunrise.
But…I’m really not a morning person.
The other morning, things took a dicey turn, as they usually do around 7:15 a.m. Stanton had an earlier-than-usual meeting, so left earlier than usual. We were low on groceries, and I was scrambling to make the girls’ lunches with the limited items left in our cupboards and fridge.
“Grace, how does a Nutella sandwich sound?”
Big sigh. “Fine, or I could buy lunch.”
Not today. “I need to add money to your account.”
“Great, can you do that?”
Anna began tugging on my pajama-pant leg. “I can’t do that now… What is it, honey?”
“I can’t have a Nutella sandwich, Mom.” Anna frowned at me. “The last time you did that, Miss Molly said, no nuts. Nutella has nuts: Nutella.”
Right. My bad. “You can have a jelly sandwich, Anna.” Just jelly, of course. No peanut butter.
Big sigh from the preschooler. “Mom, you know I don’t prefer the jelly we have. And I know you don’t like the word…hate…but I hate that jelly.”
Grace gasped. “Anna! Hate is a strong word.”
Anna nodded somberly. “I hate that jelly, Grace.”
Big sigh from the mom.
The other morning, things took a dicey turn, as they usually do around 7:15 a.m.
Kids can tell when their families need to restock the cupboards and fridge—their packed lunches for school give it away. One slice of their sandwich is the end piece of a loaf of bread (scientifically known as the booty here at Casa Leddy), whose “best by” date passed a couple of days ago.
Instead of fresh fruit, there’s a fruit-flavored snack, such as cherry Jolly Ranchers or unicorn power Pop Tarts.
(Side note: I have yet to determine exactly what flavor “unicorn power” is. Cherry, supercharged?)
I don’t know about you, but milk is always, always the first bullet point on my grocery list. I don’t even have to look in the fridge to confirm we need it. I just know: milk.
Meatballs and granola bars are two other omnipresent, grocery-list bullet points. Some days, all Anna eats are granola bars. “You’re going to turn into a granola bar,” I tell her.
“No, I’m not,” Anna replies with laugh, while unwrapping yet another chocolate-chip-chia granola bar. “I’m still Anna! Anna Virginia Leddy.”
“Honey…Virginia is Grace’s middle name. Yours is Parker, remember? Anna Parker Leddy.”
Anna looked at me, doubtful.
Kids can tell when their families need to restock the cupboards and fridge—their packed lunches for school give it away.
Though not a granola bar or Anna Virginia, my younger daughter likes to call herself a glue stick. My glue stick, to be exact. One day, she was following me around the house, chanting, “Hold me, hold me.”
I asked Anna if it was possible for me to have a few minutes to make a phone call. The basement sink kept filling with water from both the washing machine and dishwasher, weirdly; Stanton and I really needed a plumber to come over (having given up, at this point, from DIY-ing the problem with YouTube tutorials).
“Impossible,” Anna replied.
Of course. “You’re sticking to me like glue, boo.”
Anna loved this metaphor. “I’m your glue stick, Mom!”
…having given up, at this point, from DIY-ing the problem with YouTube tutorials…
The plumber came. Solved the problem with the basement sink (the main line was clogged). Usually I’m the one who solves the problems around here, as moms everywhere can understand, but every now and then, it’s nice to have some (professional) help.
Some professional help with our often-hectic mornings would be equally nice, but the chances of that happening, friends, are improbable to not-a-prayer. No worries, though. “Everything here is under control” = my daybreak mantra.
Earlier this week, I was walking Anna to preschool. It had just rained, but was sunny again. I was holding Anna’s hand, navigating her around the puddles on the sidewalk, but she kept darting left, then right, splashing through the sun-kissed water.
“Honey…are you walking in puddles on purpose?”
“Because it’s fun, Mom.” Splash.
Life with kids lends itself to funny moments. Enough to fill a book, or at least a blog post.
Fall is settling in here in upstate New York, so I was browsing the Eddie Bauer website. Scrolling through the women’s pants section, picking out some new joggers and leggings. I work from home, you know; I like to keep things classy, polished.
I found some joggers I liked. The product description said fleece, elastic waist. Bingo—checking all my boxes. I clicked “M.”
“Is M for Mom?” Anna appeared out of nowhere.
“No, M is the size. Medium,” I explained.
“Your size is medium, Mom?”
I nodded. “Did you think it was something different, sweetheart?”
That’s a direct quote, friends. One word. There you go, and thank you very much.
The product description said fleece, elastic waist. Bingo—checking all my boxes.
Truth be told, I adore my daughters. Adore. They drive me crazy in the morning, and give me little to zero privacy, and are the No. 1 and 2 reasons why my new fall wardrobe mainly consists of elastic-waist fleece joggers. And they have, for sure, offered up enough “funny” moments to fill multiple blog posts.
Grace and Anna have also made me full.
With personal fulfillment, there is no one-size-fits-all. Each of us “fills up” in our own way. Launching the business we always dreamed of, crossing the finish line of a hard-fought race, getting sober.
Walking in puddles on purpose, because it’s fun.
It is fun, you know. I had forgotten that.
Photo credit: Pixabay
Like what you just read? Then check out Melissa Leddy’s newest short story, “Backtrack.” An engaging read that’s can’t-put-it-down good.