the Mother Runner

It’s 5:30. Dinner is going to be late.

Little Miss is crawling around the apartment, crying, looking for her dinner, which, I’m sorry, isn’t going to be ready until I can get everything on the table and take a minute to sit down. “Hey Honey! You’re so cute! You’re going to be just fine! You’re going to be okay!” I tell her. The brightness of my voice does nothing to soothe her frazzled nerves – or mine.

The middle child is whining from the bathroom about how he needs help. Because he just wet his pants.

*sigh*

Of course he did. He always wets his pants the day after I do the laundry. Like clockwork.

While I help him find some new clothes, the oil I have heating in the skillet starts smoking. The smoke detector beeps obnoxiously. I grab a chair to stand on so I can take it off the wall. The smoke hangs visibly in the apartment. It’s only 67 degrees inside and the heat has been off – broken – most of the day. But I’ve got to get the smoke out. I crack the window.

Meanwhile, the eldest child is lying lethargically on the couch, his rising temperature will be undiscovered for another hour. For the moment, his silence feels like a blessing.

It’s 5:30 and dinner is going to be late.