If you’re a parent, you’re well aware of the brutal, unforgiving pace of life that comes with the responsibility of caring for small humans. You go to work for eight hours a day, come home and work another eight, and if you’re very, very lucky, get to sleep for the final eight.
Vacations aren’t really vacations. All you’re doing is taking the eight hours you usually spend at your paying job and adding them to the eight hours you’re already working at your non-paying job (while spending all the money from the check you just got from the paying one). What this boils down to is that there’s not a whole lot of free time to just tune out and try to come back to a place of calm and serenity.
That is, except for your lunch hour.
Yes, the lunch hour. That beautiful, splendid, state-mandated break that is your only true place of refuge for five hours a week . That is, if you’re not a stay-at-home parent. That’s nap-time. Unfortunately that comes with no guarantee, and is subject to the mercy of your tiny overlords. Even then, it only lasts until they turn about four or five, after which you’re pretty much screwed until they start going to school full-time (the most salient argument against homeschooling you’ll ever come across).
Anyhoo, this is usually the time I spend vegging out by catching up with Facebook, going to the bathroom without the customary entourage of my children, or writing blog posts about my complete lack of success with adult life. It’s wonderful. Of course, that’s also usually about the time Mama Angel makes the mistake of calling to have an actual conversation with me (a vain attempt to escape the children and interact with another adult for the briefest moment in her helter-skelter day). Sadly, she doesn’t seem to understand that my brain already left the building 45 minutes earlier at the stroke of lunch o’clock.
This is the result:
Mama Angel: “Something, something, Roundbottom, something, something, Footloose, something, something, something, he threw it straight at his brother’s head!”
Me: “Uh-huh.” (Translation: “I like sandwiches.”)
Mama Angel: “Whatcha doing? Facebooking? Blogging?” (Translation: “What are you doing besides not paying attention to me, you ass?”)
Me: “Internet Surfing” (Translation: “Trying to go into a zen-like, blank state so I can ignore the fact I only have ten minutes of break left”)
Mama Angel: “What are you reading?” (Translation: “I hope you enjoy freezing your ass off when I make you sleep in the basement tonight, you jerk”).
Me: “Top Ten Things You Need to Know About Voltron” (Translation: “Adulthood is not what was promised. Why can’t I just go back to being 8?”)
Mama Angel: “Really?” (Translation: “What ever possessed me to think that sharing a bed with you was a good idea?”)
Me: “It’s five robot lions that come together to form an even bigger robot. What’s not to love?” (No translation necessary. This speaks for itself.)
She’s a very lucky woman, folks.
4 thoughts on “The Magic Hour”
I used to count the minutes that went by as I lay awake thinking about how much more sleep I was going to get before I had to go to work or school. The only thing that has changed is me now laying awake wondering how much more sleep the world’s smallest dictator is going to get and foolishly think that translates to more sleep for myself. Also, I freaking loved Voltron as a kid. Netflix is doing a reboot that airs TOMORROW and it looks amazing. Let’s just say, I’m pretty excited about not getting to watch it. I hope you enjoy not watching it too!
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Unless it has Alvin and the Chipmunks, Snoopy, or some god-awful singing snow-man in it, I’m not going to be able to get the little so-and-so’s onboard with watching it. This is why I have to wait until 9 at night to pop in my old “Transformers” DVD’s. I’d say that I’m still trying to figure out the precise moment in time that I completely lost all control of my life, but we both know that I know EXACTLY when that happened. Thanks for reading!
You are just rocking it with a new blog, Jeremy! I can completely relate to this one!
Sent from my iPhone.
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