Okay, I admit it: I am tired. 

No, scratch that, add BEYOND tired. The bed is piled high with clean laundry while toys, books, magazines, clothes hangers and what ever else is strewn around the room and I can sense the “stuff” hiding, that my bleary eyes could not see.

My brain chose at that very moment to flash a memory of being told, by some great person of obvious higher intelligence than mine (either that or it was some single person with no kids or pets) that going to sleep with stuff on your bed is not healthy for a persons chi. Apparently, the clutter sends some sort of "bad energy" to your sleep pattern. OH PLEASE! I can't even remember most nights turning the lights out, let alone worry about my freakin' sleep pattern, or what kind of tea I drink.  

Take last night as an example: I woke up at 3:00 am with my eye glasses still on, head resting on a hand (obviously in an attempt to watch TV before falling asleep) that had gone completely numb from being in that position for hours. To add insult to injury, I then had to suffer through several minutes of pins and needles stabbing into my fingers that were finally being fed oxygen-filled blood. I tried to be grateful that the fingers hadn’t fallen off, but was silently wondering if falling off would be less painful.

I am the Queen of de-clutter, right? The Martha Stewart of Malden, right?  Ahhhh NO! That is absolute crap - especially today. Quite frankly, my supermom cape is ripped, I can't fly and I would like to just dump all of the "stuff" into trash bags, hide it in a closet and forget about it until the day  my cape has been re-sown.  Of course, I was the idiot yesterday that had decided first thing in the morning, to dump several laundry baskets filled with clothes on the bed.  Stating to "self" at the time, (and I am sure with a pompous arrogance), that I would have plenty of time through the course of my day to get it done.  ***starts to bang head on the side table while chanting 'idiot'***

"Okay", I breathe, as I head downstairs to make the coffee. Today is Sunday.  A day of rest. Mentally giving myself a pep talk, I actually start to feel better as I scoop the grinds into the pot, whilst the two dogs prance around at my feet.  Today could actually be a great day, I think to myself leaning against the refrigerator, while inhaling the delicious aroma and listening to the happy perking sounds of my saving grace, dribbling into the coffee pot.

Oh No! Dribbling! Eyes quickly scanning the kitchen I catch sight of the dog with the lower intelligence, leg lifted, trying to look everywhere but at me. Dammit, I forgot to take the dogs out.

Clapping my hands in a ridiculous attempt at stopping the flow streaming from his tiny body, I ran to grab the vinegar bottle to clean up the golden puddle now spreading across my hardwood floor. Glancing warily at the other one with the higher intelligence while trying to decide whether to clean up the now fast spreading urine or take her out to do her business. As if she could speak, Sedona sat down, blinking at me with her bright brown eyes as if to say, “I can wait, Mom. You can clean up the idiots mess first.”  Oh, how I love her!

Going down on hands and knees, I start to scrub the puddle as the coffee pot hisses and sputters letting me know that the liquid gold, that lifesaving java, is ready for my consumption.

Dogs fed and walked. Floor cleaned. Coffee in hand, I plunk down on the couch as I stare at the pile of bills that I cannot pay. Sinking further into the quagmire of sleep depraved depression at the state of my life I grab the “to do” list, then logically scratch off everything and write, “play lottery” just as my three bundles of joy, the reason I breathe, walk into the room. 

The middle child, thirteen-year-old boy, obviously not realizing Supermom’s cape was ripped, decided to speak first: “Wow mom, you look really bad – what’s for breakfast.” Shooting imaginary nerf daggers at him, I wondered at the cruel joke of creation that we not only give birth but we also have to feed them, minimum three times a day, seven days a week. The two girls started yelling at the top of their lungs at the boy because of his insensitive comment regarding my looks, while proceeding to tell him I have looked worse.

Sighing deeply, I stood up, inadvertently knocking over my extremely large mug of preciousness. My cup of renewed life. The holy grail of many people's morning.  A heavy silence hung over the room, as the children and dogs stared open mouthed while the liquid sank into the couch and splashed in places I knew I probably would never be able to clean. Hesitantly my youngest spoke ….”Mom?  You're not going to cry are you?" As her bottom lip started to quiver.

Plastering the biggest, fakest smile on my face, I headed up the stairs and back to bed. Superman, you got nothing on me cause I know when to quit!  Glaring at the same pile that started this all, I shoved everything aside and crawled back into bed.  Monday, my most dreaded day of the week, is looking pretty good to me right now.

Kelly Ilebode, is a Malden resident and published author.  If you would like to visit her site you can go to www.kellyilebode.com.