I have a few loves in life.
One of them is sleepily walking to the edge of my driveway on Sunday morning to grab my double wrapped, fat ass Sunday New York Times.
I plop it on the dining room table and walk with eyes partially open to the coffee maker to get my brew on.
Like clock work, the minute that I begin to unravel the plastic from the news, one of my three munchkins comes barreling into the kitchen requesting a hug, a kiss, a bowl of cereal and the iPad.
I usually oblige as I am desperate to read the "Modern Love" column featured in the Sunday Styles section. It's a fantastic column that highlights a different writer each week exploring some aspect on what it means to love..usually its a personal story...and as a collector of stories, I can't get enough.
Slumped over the counter reading, waiting patiently for the magic potion to brew, I hear another little one coming in to shake a leg, cry out a demand, needing me to be his mama...when, all I really want is to sit quietly and read...no, what I really want is to be a writer drafting these columns.
Then, yet again like clock work, my husband comes bounding down the steps and saves the day...answering their questions, gathering their favorite cereal choices and kissing me on the top of the head while I feverishly try to reach the end of the ink.
And then it starts. Out of the blue, Sam kicks Kate. Kate cries out. She gets pissed and hits back. The baby starts belting out for good measure. Someone dumps over a perfectly good glass of milk. Rice Krispies tumble onto the floor. My husband starts doling out consequences like it's cash. I can feel my temperature rising and the frustration ensuing as I yearn for just a little quiet on this Sunday morning.
But quiet is not a part of my world right now. So I wait. Until bedtime. Every night during the week so that I can devour a column, an article, a book, my husband and the craziness that is mine.