It’s the little things…

The house is super quiet.  Supper dishes are still on the counter from last night!  I’m in a mis-matched pair of pyjamas and the polish from my last pedicure is rudely chipping from my toes. I’ve got bills to pay, groceries to buy… laundry piled as far as the eye can see.  I could do with a shower… which reminds me I need to caulk the tub.  I’ve never caulked a tub.

I hate the word caulk.

I’m trying to be quiet… if I stay where I am… not move… my little one who’s upstairs faking sick won’t hear me and request a piece of toast. 

I should be folding laundry. 

Ever just want to be little?  They have their issues… which to them are huge… but in our grown up world seem oh so very minuscule.  Her tooth won’t come out.  She’s been wiggling it for 24 hours and the thing is stuck… ticking her off.  She’s all in a sweat and bother over it.  Turned herself inside out… and now… she’s faking sick.  But I’m not sure.

I’m never really sure.

My oldest is in exams.  I never want to relive those days.  Heading out of little and getting big.

I still have nightmares that I’m running around the high school unable to find the classroom to write my math exam which surely I’ll fail.  I get to the stage on graduation day and my diploma isn’t there… I didn’t make it.  Another year of that dreaded place because I can’t for the life of me multiply.  Or divide.

She’s almost done.  I’ll miss that little one. 

Nightmares can be brutal… you get through all that crap only to relive it again.

I dream of elevators dropping… swinging… swaying.  Ridiculous glass elevators that take on the shape of water slides and roller coasters… allowing me to see everything going on outside but completely trapped in that glass capsule.  The doors won’t open and I’m dropping through the air for the next several minutes… knowing what’s about to happen… willing myself to wake up but I never quite get there till just before it hits the bottom.  I haven’t had one of those nightmares in well over a year.  Hmmmmmm…..

Little is good.  Little means having to keep your room clean and brush your teeth when your mother tells you… sometimes just running the brush under water ’cause she’s not going to notice anyway.  Little means putting the thermometer on the light bulb so it’ll show you have a temperature then getting yourself all in a sweat hoping you don’t get caught… but the pale and sweaty “lie face” makes your mother think you’re sick anyway so you can curl up in her bed and watch cartoons all day.  Little is deciding at lunch that you’ll go back to school so you can go out and play with everyone else when the bell rings and it’s time to go home.  Someone else cooks the meals, makes the plan, buys the clothes, pays the bills.  Little means not knowing that any of this is even going on… and you don’t really care.

Little means not worrying if the floor is about to drop out from underneath you.  Cause even if it did… someone’d be there to catch you.

She heard me.  Time to make toast, clean the kitchen and fold some laundry.

If I can only figure out where my oldest hid the nail polish remover.

I’m really going to miss that little one.