MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!


Have I ever told you how much I hate whining? I really do. So much. Have I ever told you how often I DON’T HEAR whining? Probably because it NEVER happens. Actually, that’s a lie. Sometimes it happens. But it’s pretty rare, so for the purposes of this update, it NEVER happens. It should be stated for the record that anything in capital letters should be read in as whiny of a sneering voice as physically possible.

MOOOOOOOOOOM! (Can you wipe my BUUUUUUUTTTTTT??) To which, my brain responds with an equally whiny I’M IN THE SHOOOOOOWER! THE WATER’S WAAAAAARM!

MOOOOOOOOOOM! (I want some WAAAAAATER!!) To which, my brain responds with an equally moody I’M PACKING LUNCHES WHILE WASHING YOUR WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATER BOTTLE and I’m also boiling water for tea for my SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANITY!

MOOOOOOOOOOM! (Littlest/Biggest IS Looking/Touching MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…) To which, my brain responds with I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOW, I CAN SEEEEEEEE IT… and also (spoken instead in a thunderous mom voice in my brain) WHY ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR ROOM IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE LOOKED AT! YOU SIT ACROSS THE TABLE FROM YOUR BROTHER! HUMAN BEINGS ARE NOT INVISIBLE, WE HAVE NOT ADAPTED THAT PARTICULAR GENE POOL FOR PITY’S SAKE!

MOOOOOOOOOOM! (Littlest/Biggest IS Playing/Not-Cleaning/Touching-Something) To which my poor, tired, wistfully-wishing-it-were-still-asleep brain says WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA*breath*AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

And, after all is said and done, I sit down with my tea for two minutes, and it begins again. (Not always, but most times, so continuing with the ALWAYS or now.) So! MOMMY’s turn.

I DON’T WAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNA GET OUT OF BED!

STOP WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINING AT ME!

I’M NOT READY TO MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE YOU BREAKFAST.

I DON’T WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANT TO MAKE YOU YOUR LUNCH.

I DON’T CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARE THAT YOU DON’T LIKE TUNA/EGG-SALAD/JAM.

STOP LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOKING AT ME, I HAVEN’T HAD MY TEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA YET.

I DON’T WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANT TO WASH YOUR WATER BOTTLE.

I WANT TO PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ALOOOOOOOONE.

GET OUT OF THE BAAAAAAAAAAATHROOM, IT’S MY TURN.

 

Weirdly enough, once all is said and done though… I still look back on the morning and (with my whine-less-mommy-brain) say to myself, “Awwww… that hug Littlest gave Biggest was soooooo cute!” and “Man, Biggest’s so taaaaaaaaalll!!” and “Littlest’s chatter sure is adorable, clearly got the chatterbox gene from me!”…. I think it’s an extension of whatever gene gave us the ability to forget the pain of childbirth and go “OH YEAH, that wasn’t BAD at ALL! I could totally do that again”. Yup, that’s gotta be it.

Mrs. Handler.

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