I’m being smothered. My darling children are smothering me. It reminds me of a line from Sex and the City; Miranda said about her son something like… if he were 35 this is when we’d break up.
I was ready to give them the it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk on Saturday. Kramer was working all weekend and the kids had been invited by their Aunt & Uncle to go to the zoo and/or whatever fun they could dream up. They were looking forward to this and I was really looking forward to this – the bliss of solitude. When final arrangements and times were being sorted out, Libby announced she wouldn’t go without me. And Isaac tearily decided he couldn’t possibly go without her. I explained that I wasn’t invited and how much fun it would be (blah, blah, blah) but they wouldn’t have it.
I was mad. No, I was disappointed but it comes out looking a lot like mad. I insisted Libby take a nap – it was the least she could do. I came downstairs after getting her down and Isaac was waiting on the couch with a book. Great. During the week this is our routine, I read to him while she is sleeping. But it was Saturday and they were supposed to be in the car on their way to fun. But I read to him anyway and he, as always, begged for just one more chapter. NO. No, No, No. I had read three chapters and I was going to read some of my own book now! So, for 45 minutes he sat on the couch with me while I read. He had his feet on me or walked his little pirate guys on my legs and forgot about 50 times that this was not the time to chat.
So, mostly I pretended to read hoping that he’d give up and get lost. Nope, it was the way it always is, they are programmed to know when I’ve taken a seat or opened a magazine. I suppose they sense that’s when I'm available and I want them to know that I am available and I love them so much it hurts but it can’t be a coincidence that smother is just the word mother with an “s.”