Monday, August 24, 2015
An "accidental" shoving incident
(no it wasn't)
(yes it was)
led directly to a spilled juice incident,
accompanied predictably by sticky tears.
The oatmeal's exploded in the microwave,
which isn't clean any more
and the phone keeps ringing,
its urgency all co-mingly with the baby's grunts and tray smacks
"ma! ma! ma!"
I never answer the phone.
Babies must be answered, not always according to their place in the queue.
"Mama! Can you untie my doll's sunbonnet again?"
Is an eyeroll ever an acceptable response to a little girl, aged three and eleven months?
I lift up mine eyes to the ceiling
(an eyeroll of Biblical proportions),
glancing out the window on the way to the sink to clean up the mess.
The sun's barely started up the sky.
No help is coming today, and it's a long, long time until afternoon naps.
The only prayer I can find is my Gram's well-worn Mercy!
I wonder how many times she said it.
This morning, I borrow it,
moving my lips without stopping my feet.