This is how I start my day.

I wake up and consider a concept for a novel. I have no plan to write it, but I am thinking about it. I listen as my husband struggles to get the kids out of bed. 

Notice me not rushing to help him.

I finally get up, forced by hunger. I am in the kitchen and my daughter, who is almost nine, confronts me. “Mom, do you know what I’m tired of? I’m tired of 1. Magic diamonds cereal 2. Apples for snack 3. Cheese toast for afternoons.”  She counts off each one with a finger slapped into her palm.

I look at her, hair unbrushed, jeans too baggy, and little freckles on her nose. I say, with a hint of mockery, “I am not surprised you are tired of those foods. They are all you eat.”

Undaunted, she counts down her list again slapping those fingers into her palm for each item, and stands there, chin up, hands on hips as if it were my fault she won’t eat anything. We agree she might be willing to try a new snack bar.

“The one with chocolate chips,” she says. Then she puts her school snack—an apple—in her sweatshirt pocket and leaps into an Arabesque in the kitchen.  “Laaa!” she sings off key and heads off to start her day.

Then my fuzzy headed son comes in. He crashes into me, knocking me back a step, buries his face into my stomach, and clutches my sweater sleeves.

“Mmm” he says. “Hi Mama.”  It is pretty hard to get mad at anyone who says hi like that. 

“Hi bunny,” I say, “Are you dressed?” He is clearly not dressed, still wearing his pajamas, holding his blanket (a bright orange square of fleece) and two or three sleeping buddies.

“I want YOU to get me dressed,” he says, poking me in the belly.  I point out that I have not eaten. He says he doesn’t care. I say that I need to eat first before I do anything, or else I might be tempted to -- “Eat my children!”

I tickle him and nuzzle his head. He has more hair than God, and it usually sticks straight out. He squeals and runs off.

After I eat, I stand at the door and watch my children scamper away. My long-legged daughter lopes next to her father, same lanky body type.  My son skips to catch up with them, I notice his arms are sticking out of his sleeves, and his pants are too short. Well, that’s what happens when you marry a tall skinny guy, I guess.

I have good kids, I think appreciatively.

Then I start the rest of my day.

By Lianna McSwain

Labels: family, Lianna McSwain

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 10:53 AM