There are so many times in life when I think, “I wish I could draw.” Also sometimes I really really wish I could do a standing backflip, because life often warrants the kind of celebration that only a standing backflip can convey. “Yay!” I say, lamely, unable to communicate inside my earthbound prison. But the drawing, that’s because I have these funny ideas in my head that maybe a picture could say so well, but I can’t draw, so I have to write a thousand words to describe it instead, and then the MOG is like, “eh, that blog is too long,” and I can either post it anyway, because I am the boss of this blog, or I can take his advice and chop words until my picture is a skinny little surgically altered Housewife version of my original thought, i.e. Twitter.
And sometimes it’s harder to get the words out of bed than you might think. Like this morning and every weekday morning of my life, when I am sitting in my big chair swilling chai tea while small people fire questions at me at breakneck speed. You know that part in Star Wars and also all of the movies when you go turbo or warp speed or whatever and all of the sudden the galaxy is all stripy and blurry? That’s like every morning. “Put on your shoes,” I say robotically. “Put on your pants first. Put on your pants. Put on your pants. Put on your pants.” While I am aimlessly repeating phrases, they are doing cartwheels, acting out massively complicated scenarios in which Sonic the Hedgehog ninja-chops a lot of bad guys, and then the bad guys cry a lot because they got ninja-chopped FOR REAL, and then they run in circles until everyone in the house is awake and demanding “breaktist and gartoons” and I stare bleakly into the cosmos, “Put on your pants,” I say.
If I could draw, that could be like one picture. But I can’t, and besides, I’m tired. After the Battle For Pants comes the Battle For Everything Else like Put on Shoes and Eat Your Cereal and I Don’t Care About Your Opinion, Wear Those Shoes and many, many more battles until the war is won except Put On Your Seatbelt, which can last for upwards of 2 hours while we sit in the driveway and I gently weep into my steering wheel. “Is your brain having a stressful day?” Toby asks gently. “Put. on. your. seatbelt,” I sob into the Toyota symbol.
“Drink coffee,” you tell me, and a) I would, except that coffee, despite smelling like a log cabin full of sleepy kittens and soft blankets, tastes like what I would expect if I were to lick the undercarriage of an 18 wheeler after a long drive through Port Arthur, Texas, and b) it doesn’t make me feel awake, it makes me feel nervous, which would take Robot Mommy to Jittery Crack Mommy, which is worse. So. No coffee.
I’m sorry this is long. I can’t draw, see?