January 27, 2009

This morning we took a trip to the Danvers library, following a tip from my neighbor that the children’s room is huge, located in the basement, and you can make a lot of noise. Translation: germs won’t be as tightly contained, we can’t do much damage, and my children’s loud voices will not attract the usual glares of patrons in smaller facilities.
The building itself is gorgeous: a cream colored facade with fantastic big windows. It is reminiscent of The White House. “Wow, what a gorgeous building,” I say to my little travelers Tom and Hadley. Tom looks the place over and says, “Mom, I think they have a hospital on the top floor of this library.” Awesome. Hopefully it’s an outpatient branch of a mental hospital, because I could use a little trip to the ol‘ cuckoos nest right about now.
We hung around the children’s room for an hour or so before loading back into old Bessy and heading over to the grocery store. I made the mistake of putting the bags at my kids’ feet, so when we arrive home it looked like they’d been operating a paper shredder back there. Bags are ripped all the way down on both sides. Sweet. That really made for an invigorating unloading experience.
As I made my way into the house, I started my usual routine of daydreaming about my mudroom. As it stands now, I don’t really have a mudroom. It’s not a mudroom at all actually. It’s more like a room full of mud. Once the market stops tanking, maybe it will be a consideration. Instead, for now it’s me, myself, and my muddy room. And on the subject of rooms: who the hell invented the great room? And what is that? Do you invite your friends over and invite them in there so you can all brag about how great everything is going? What about the rest of the house? Is there a melt-down room? A time-out room? A room that resembles a doghouse for my husband?
So here I sit, during what is supposed to be naptime. Tom has announced in his ritualistic way that he has to go poop. Same time every day. Like father like son. Hadley is upstairs shaking the gate I have on her door, repeating in a rather rhythmic way, “I waaaant to go down stairs!” So I’ll let her trash her room for a bit longer and then go retrieve her. She’ll be fine till about 5:30 when all the wheels will come off the cart.
And I remind myself: I do love this. I love them. I love being here. I gave up kissing ass in the corporate life to wipe asses in my own home. I love most every minute, I love it, I do, I can, I think I can, I think I can…If you are reading this, and you do have friendship, alcohol, or chocolate to offer, my door is always open.

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