The house is dark and quiet for the first time in 9 days, and I'm finally alone. Sweet, blessed relief. You full-time parents are thinking, "Cry me a river. 9 days? Try 9,000 days!"
But cut me a little slack; this is still pretty new territory for me.
I can't remember the last time I missed church, but my little stepdaughter brought me an early Christmas gift this week on her holiday visit - a flu/cold monstrosity made more delightful since I'm pregnant and can't take much medication. So this morning I helped my girls get dressed, hair done, and then sent them off with Daddy for a few hours of church.
Now I'm alone and able to hear myself think. These girls hound me every moment of the day when I'm with them. I go to the bathroom, and they urgently need to tell me something which turns out to be utterly un-urgent. The little one slides her fingers under the door and asks if I can see them. Of course I can see them! The real question is, do I want to be seeing them when I'm using the restroom (or pretending to use the restroom, actually just hiding for a few minutes)?
They literally follow me around from room to room, and it's not enough just to be in my presence. They need my undivided attention; they compete for it.
"Watch me do my cartwheel," for the 30th time this morning, or, "Look at my picture. Can I cuddle with you? Let's play store. This girl at school..."
It never ends. And not only is the talking incessant, the physical contact never stops. While I'm eating cereal in the morning, I look rather like a t-rex with my elbows pinned to my side by one girl or both. Watching TV used to be a respite for me, where I could shut off my mind and relax my body. Now I may as well try to hold a kangaroo on my lap for all the bumping and adjusting these two do. And actually hearing the show? Forget it.
Remember when I used to be able to move freely from one room to another? Yeah, those were the good old days. My girls are 9 and 6, which seems old enough to avoid contact on a normal walking route. But these two are forever under my feet. I constantly jostle and squeeze my way around them, but sometimes they barricade me in the room. The fee for passage is my 46th hug of the morning and usually a kiss too.
One time, while on a family bike ride, my big girl insisted on riding so close to me that she collided with my front tire. It was all I could do to push her out of the way while I fell on both bikes and took a major hit to my right breast from her handle bar. She was fine. I'm convinced I'm still lopsided.
And my name! I've never disliked my name so much as when it's used for the 276th time with yet another request for time and attention. I have considered banning my name from their vocabulary. It. Never. Stops.
So now the house is dark and quiet. I take a deep breath and turn on the Christmas tree lights. All I can think of are my wonderful little girls and their amazing daddy. I sit down to write this post about them, and I'm thinking I'll surprise them with homemade chocolate chip cookies when they return.
I hope they're being good for Daddy at church. I hope they grow closer to God today so they can feel His love when we send them back to their mom's house this afternoon; I can't be there with them, but He can. I hope they know just how much I love them. I hope that in the last 9 days, I played with them enough, held them enough, let them know just how remarkable they are. I hope they never felt my impatience with their chatterbox tendencies and their constant need for physical affection.
The house is dark and quiet, and I realize I am the luckiest wife and stepmom in the world. My little girls love me. They love me! My husband is my rock and my best friend. The girls' needs are constant, it's true, but this time is fleeting. Before long, I'll be soliciting their attention and affection, and I'll be competing with their cell phones. So while they're little, I'm going to dig deeper and hug them yet again, listen to them ad nauseam, and play with them as much as possible.
And now, I'd best see to those chocolate chip cookies.
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