The Relativity of "Normal"
I'm not sure how a typical Sunday starts in most homes. In my mind though, I comfortably nestle into the 50's era nuclear family bliss. Children sleeping in until at least 8 am, tucked soundly in their twin beds in a neat and tidy room. Mother and father waking just early enough to be dressed and sipping coffee at the table with a coffee cake baking in the oven when the cherubs awaken. The mother, hair and makeup perfect, heels and pearls donned, smiling at her perfect family. Father, peeking over his paper and smiling past the pipe in the corner of his mouth. Aaaaahhhh. So nice and tidy.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not really all that naive. Because when I met the cop I myself was embarking in a career in what society has dubbed "community corrections." So yes, the liberal has her own kevlar and glock. That's right, ha ha, go through all the chuckling of his and her gun belts. Go ahead, get it out of your system, I'll wait. I have for the past four and a half years been assigned to the rehabilitation and monitoring of delinquent teenagers. Before that I dealt with drug offenders. So I know Donna Reed isn't running in the same circles as me and wouldn't be caught dead touching the toe of a patent leather pump in some of the homes I'm searching. But a girl can fantasize, right?
So the perfect Sunday, with all of us cozy at the table before we get ready to drive off to church, it isn't happening so much here. Instead, the day starts with my five year old deciding at 6:45 it's time for him to watch the show he was forced to turn off before bed last night. Here's the kicker. This means he needs to navigate the television, sound system, and get the X-box to Netflix before finding and selecting the same damn show I made him turn off last night when I swore to all that was holy that if I had to hear "Whatcha doing Phineas?" one more time I was going postal on the television. At 6:45 am. Sadly, he is totally able to do this apparently, and because he was lonely decided to turn it up to skeleton shaking loud.
Being the fantastic mother and wife I am, I kicked the cop who can yell louder. Responding well to his training he immediately topped the volume of the television and most likely woke the dead informing Gav the TV was just a smidgen too noisy (in not so many words). And the volume decreased, and we started to doze again peacefully. Guess that coffee cake will have to wait until next week.
But wait, apparently somewhere along the line SOMETHING, gosh, I don't know what it could have been... SOMETHING woke the three year old. This was just fantastic for the lonely five year old. It meant he could go back upstairs to their bedroom and play. You know, the bedroom right above the one occupied by his poor, drained parentals? Yeah, that bedroom. And since the tv was too loud downstairs, if he goes upstairs and closes the door we clearly will not be disturbed by him turning on his stereo so he and the three year old can jump between the two beds while rocking out to some chick rapping about the alphabet.
Fair is fair, and we take turns, so I was in no way shocked when I was kicked by the cop. But with the radio up and so much bouncing commencing this meant in order to be heard I had to climb out from under my barricade of quilt and pillows and make it up at least half the stairs, banging on the walls and demanding "QUIET!!!!"
This alerted them that I was awake. And from that point further no matter how hard I tried to ignore them they just kept luring me from my comfort zone by whispering things outside my bedroom door about how they could probably reach it if they climbed on a chair, or did either of them know the alarm code so they could go outside?
Here's where the not so Donna Reed emerges for real, work out pants and Star Trek shirt, hair in a ponytail and bags under her eyes that go clear to her chin. And then we start the morning ritual of making breakfast (which, if it must be done before I get coffee consists of cereal bars and drinks), sorting out whatever fights have been put on hold for me to mediate, and then, after the second course of breakfast (sliced strawberries, bananas, and cherries with "NO SEEDS MOMMA!") I help them don their superhero costumes, turn off the alarm and release them to ride bicycles as Iron Man and Spiderman while my coffee finishes brewing.
The smell of the coffee will lure out the cop. And when it does I'll be waiting to tag him in on this fantastic game of super hero wrangling. Sadly, this is our normal. So to all of you Donna Reed families, just keep that to yourself. I don't want to know. Besides, Donna Reed couldn't hang here. Now, where's that coffee?
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not really all that naive. Because when I met the cop I myself was embarking in a career in what society has dubbed "community corrections." So yes, the liberal has her own kevlar and glock. That's right, ha ha, go through all the chuckling of his and her gun belts. Go ahead, get it out of your system, I'll wait. I have for the past four and a half years been assigned to the rehabilitation and monitoring of delinquent teenagers. Before that I dealt with drug offenders. So I know Donna Reed isn't running in the same circles as me and wouldn't be caught dead touching the toe of a patent leather pump in some of the homes I'm searching. But a girl can fantasize, right?
So the perfect Sunday, with all of us cozy at the table before we get ready to drive off to church, it isn't happening so much here. Instead, the day starts with my five year old deciding at 6:45 it's time for him to watch the show he was forced to turn off before bed last night. Here's the kicker. This means he needs to navigate the television, sound system, and get the X-box to Netflix before finding and selecting the same damn show I made him turn off last night when I swore to all that was holy that if I had to hear "Whatcha doing Phineas?" one more time I was going postal on the television. At 6:45 am. Sadly, he is totally able to do this apparently, and because he was lonely decided to turn it up to skeleton shaking loud.
Being the fantastic mother and wife I am, I kicked the cop who can yell louder. Responding well to his training he immediately topped the volume of the television and most likely woke the dead informing Gav the TV was just a smidgen too noisy (in not so many words). And the volume decreased, and we started to doze again peacefully. Guess that coffee cake will have to wait until next week.
But wait, apparently somewhere along the line SOMETHING, gosh, I don't know what it could have been... SOMETHING woke the three year old. This was just fantastic for the lonely five year old. It meant he could go back upstairs to their bedroom and play. You know, the bedroom right above the one occupied by his poor, drained parentals? Yeah, that bedroom. And since the tv was too loud downstairs, if he goes upstairs and closes the door we clearly will not be disturbed by him turning on his stereo so he and the three year old can jump between the two beds while rocking out to some chick rapping about the alphabet.
Fair is fair, and we take turns, so I was in no way shocked when I was kicked by the cop. But with the radio up and so much bouncing commencing this meant in order to be heard I had to climb out from under my barricade of quilt and pillows and make it up at least half the stairs, banging on the walls and demanding "QUIET!!!!"
This alerted them that I was awake. And from that point further no matter how hard I tried to ignore them they just kept luring me from my comfort zone by whispering things outside my bedroom door about how they could probably reach it if they climbed on a chair, or did either of them know the alarm code so they could go outside?
Here's where the not so Donna Reed emerges for real, work out pants and Star Trek shirt, hair in a ponytail and bags under her eyes that go clear to her chin. And then we start the morning ritual of making breakfast (which, if it must be done before I get coffee consists of cereal bars and drinks), sorting out whatever fights have been put on hold for me to mediate, and then, after the second course of breakfast (sliced strawberries, bananas, and cherries with "NO SEEDS MOMMA!") I help them don their superhero costumes, turn off the alarm and release them to ride bicycles as Iron Man and Spiderman while my coffee finishes brewing.
The smell of the coffee will lure out the cop. And when it does I'll be waiting to tag him in on this fantastic game of super hero wrangling. Sadly, this is our normal. So to all of you Donna Reed families, just keep that to yourself. I don't want to know. Besides, Donna Reed couldn't hang here. Now, where's that coffee?
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