Some days, the demand gets the best of me. And it brings out the worst of me. I know you have these days, too. I’d like to share with you one of mine from a time not so long ago.
There were many casualties on this particular day. My voice for one. I loathe yellers, really, I do. But unfortunately, I became one that day. My kids looked at me as though they didn’t recognize me.
You should know I’m raising a 17 year-old scary-teenage-know-it-all son who is obstinately preparing for college and a super-clingy 3 year-old princess. At. The. Same. Time.
My now covered in Pepsi, Mott’s for Tots and blue ink mind-numbing-beige sectional was another casualty. How do you get a defiant teenager and a bossy preschooler to spend even the smallest amount of time together without having to cope with such aftermath?
These are the days I find myself living dangerously.
As I sit here in bed, writing, I think about the danger. I admit I’m a super-freak about beds. I’m on a never-ending quest to create the perfect bed. It took me 4 years of persistent searching to find a duvet cover that I could fall in love with. And my beloved duvet pairs well only with a snow white quilt and crisp white sheets. Naturally. Many perfect, mostly white pillows adorn the bed as well. My husband occasionally mutters something about feeling as though he’s sleeping at Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Behold. Here’s where the dangerous behavior enters. After a day with the kids like the one I described, I need two things. A big glass of red and… well, I forget the second thing. So as I relax on my perfect bed, surrounded by my perfect pillows, I enjoy a glass of deliciously intoxicating red wine. I catch up on tweets. I write. I read my I-refuse-to-feel-guilty-for-this-intellectual-debauchery fiction.
And all the while, I clutch my wine glass so tightly that I acquire white knuckle syndrome.
That’s right, my friends. I live on the edge. I drink cabernet, shiraz and merlot in our mostly all-white linen covered bed.