Clockwork

Our children wake up every morning at 6:30.

It's perfect for my workdays. I can feed them, bathe them, dress them and kiss their sweet little cheeks goodbye and watch them wave from the porch.

On weekends it is not perfect. Not a bit.

Long before dawn I can hear Grace tripping up the stairs and slipping past the creaky door. She finds my ever-alternating side of the bed (which happens to be whichever one I collapsed onto) and pulls herself up. And in. And wraps her arms around my neck and draws out a long, "Mo-ommmm.... Wake up! I need some sir-ee-uhl."

I have many excuses to avoid the inevitable:

"Mommy needs to sleep." "Grace needs to sleep." "Oh, but I want to cuddle with you." "There are monsters downstairs eating our cereal. We'd better hide till they're gone."

Okay, I've never actually used the last one. I should though.

But it wouldn't change the outcome.

Because Claire is scheduled to go off in tears at exactly that moment. The moment after the excuse.

And so I always end up dragging my weary self out of that bed. I carry two girls on each hip down the high slippery wooden staircase to the kitchen. I pour Grace a bowl of Lucky Charms, and I fry two eggs for Claire. (she is a fanatic.)

My limbs are floppy and my head is fuzzy and it's easy to get angry.

Motherhood. It's the perpetual cycle of exhaustion.