Wake Me Up Tomorrow

Hey, it’s 2021! I’m still alive and survived the holidays without my mom and with three of us getting Covid. Theoretically, it’s January, but is it really?

New Year, same me. Same house. Same flipping kids. Same insanity. Why? Because quarantine and Christmas break joined forces to murder ever tiny particle of patience which I currently now or in the future ever hope to acquire.

In short: it’s now December 34, 2020.

Ah, but there is hope dawning on the horizon: school resumes tomorrow and we’re all out of ‘Rona. Bean heads to junior high at 7:15 and I will drop the two-headed Tasmanian Devils off at their unsuspecting elementary school at precisely 8:20am on the dot. The babies and I will have a solid five hours before Bean gets picked up, and somewhere in that time they will take a nap. AND SO WILL I.

So here’s me, clinging like a barnacle in a hurricane to the promise of tomorrow. After 10 minutes of listening to Bean talk herself through her missing Schoology assignments – currently, she’s working on a Thanksgiving logic puzzle about who brought the holiday side dishes – I finally snapped and said, “Hey, guess what? Thanksgiving was three holidays ago and I don’t care and if you expect me to care, you should have done this WHEN IT WAS DUE.” She just glared at me and slurped her Cup of Noodles like a Cavewoman who has never seen silverware before.

I’ll leave my address below for the mailing of my Mother of the Year trophy.

I’m slowly digging out of the emotional quagmire I’ve been in since November – it is my deepest hope that a return to routine and normalcy (well, as normal as we get around here) will help hold the ladder steady. Winter’s been a rocky road, but tomorrow is a new day and we shall persevere.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go throw a fork at Bean and figure out why Marsha hates stuffing and Amy brought the pumpkin pie. I still don’t care. But there’s always tomorrow.