So I’ve had quite a few days on my own with the kids. I congratulate myself for successfully ending each day with everyone happy and whole by treating myself to a dessert or (oftentimes and) a glass of white wine. After a day of many doings, the house is always very quiet. All my little peeps are asleep, and it’s just me and the cat (my Dad might say, correcting my grammar, “The cat’s not mean.” But I think “me and the cat” sounds more fun than “the cat and I,” and on here I can write how I want. So there.).
It’s quiet. And a little boring.
So here’s a jaunty little poem to describe and illustrate the odd things that may or may not occur on such an evening:
Twas the night with just mommy, the toys put away, successfully living to the end of this day
The children were snuggled up tight in their beds, as visions of Scooby Doo danced in their heads
I on the couch in my pjs at 8:00, settled in with a blanket and dessert on a plate
I’d puttered about like a little old granny, and hummed and muttered and sat on my fanny
I had been in the kitchen preparing my snack, and was struck by a thought as sharp as a smack
I was making odd noises in a sort of narration, excited by donuts, a cause for elation
When it hit me that in this sad humorous scene, I sounded a lot like the man Mr. Bean
Well the noises stopped there, and I went to the couch, I tried to sit up instead of assuming the slouch
“I’m a 31 year old woman,” I said in my head, and though I may not want to go paint the town red
I can hang onto my dignity and hold my head high, then I ate my three donuts without even a sigh.
Toasted Donuts, ink sketch
