Sunday Confessional

I confess that some days I feel much older than I am.

I love my boys more than I ever thought possible, but some days when we sit down to eat a nice dinner that Mama has lovingly prepared, I can’t help but laugh. Not necessarily in the jovial “everything-is-hilarious” way, but rather in the “I’m-laughing-to-keep-from-crying” way. You see, during this nice meal H starts this thing he has been doing that he knows bothers his Mama. I call it being squeaky. Basically he just starts screeching as loud as he can, which his brother finds hilarious and starts imitating. Then H will get up and run around the table several times in mid squeak, while M struggles at his highchair wanting both to join in on the fun and eat at the same time. M’s struggle is real, and typically it results in raspberries littering not only his hair, but also my hair, the floor, and if he was really passionate, the wall too.

We finally make it through dinner, and I heave a huge sigh of relief. Until I look at the clock and I think time is moving the wrong way. How can there still be an hour and a half until bedtime?!? And I can’t use a bath as a stalling tactic tonight because I didn’t have the foresight to heat the water. So we wrestle, the three of us boys for the next hour and a half, while mama cleans the kitchen. The boys jump with jubilance on top of my back as I lay sprawled on the living room floor, exhausted. Then I hear the words I’ve been waiting for float melodiously out of the kitchen, “It’s almost 7.” I grab one boy under each arm and take them to the bathroom where I brush their teeth, while H screams and kicks, and M tries to eat toilet paper. I wrestle them into their pyjamas and then I read.

While I read, the boys sit transfixed. Or they throw blocks at each other, scream, chase each other, and scream some more. Either way, I read and then I pray. And then I tell H how much I love him, and kiss him goodnight. Then I swaddle M and rock him to sleep and sneak down to the mirror to make sure I still have hair.

I confess that sometimes my boys make me feel old. I’ve made my confession, now go and make yours.

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