Meanwhile & Wean-Mile

My days are foggy. Sleepwalking through to lunch. Glaring into the fridge, the microwave. A furtive glance at the coffee pot. Is it time for afternoon coffee yet?

The kids go quiet every few minutes. My parental gland twitches and I look over to make sure everyone's still breathing. Usually there's a squawk, a staccato drumming of little feet on linoleum, the plaintive wail of a wronged party. Something to sort out. A snap judgement. Weak alibis all around. Wronged parties. More squawking a moment later.   

By instinct I feel for my phone. It must always be in reach. We are not the savages of bygone days. Where is it? Stomping with efficient indignation from room to room. Find the phone. Where? Why?

My meals are often the leavings from the kids' plates. Maybe a chicken nugget. Mac and cheese. Some strange fruit compound. I am the family dog. When nobody's looking I go to my secret stash and eat something chocolate. 

I love our church. I sing. I just close my eyes and sing and all the problems and pain go away.

Woof.