Coffee Talk

(*Originally posted on July 30, 2011 on My Name is Sarah’s old site)

When Mom pointed her finger at me during my sixteenth year of life, vowing that one day I would be paid back for a list full of deeds, (not worth revisiting for the moment), I must admit I was certain she was referring to a time when I would have teenagers, not preschoolers.  All of a sudden, the inquisitive four-year-old in the house has become a teenager…No, she’s not breaking curfew or skipping school, activities which I certainly know nothing about, but she’s opinionated about everything, from the socks she wears to the news report flashing across the TV.  She has to have the last word, she wants to know how, exactly, she and her sister got out of Mommy’s belly, and heaven forbid you politely suggest how you could do her hair.  She likes it tangled.  Do not touch.

The three-year-old may not share her sister’s constant interest in talking, but she has her own way of communicating.  From placing her sweet, little hands on either side of my head in the morning and not-so-gently shaking it from side to side, saying, “Wake up!” to sporadically throwing toys at my head, she is quite skillful at expressing herself.  How does one cope with this insanity?  Coffee… the flavorful godsend, finally back in my life, after a six month absence.  The results are in:  dodging projectile objects aimed at your head is much easier with coffee in the system.

Six months of being in a zombie-like state would have been perfectly acceptable, maybe, as an undergrad, (and let’s be honest, it may have happened), but while serving as the protector, guardian, and responsible party, AKA stay-at-home-mom, of two completely unpredictable, wild creatures, I meant children, caffeine-induced coherency is highly recommended.  No harm was done during the aforementioned experiment, both of my children are healthy and accounted for, but the haze has been lifted.  Clarity rules, and I can keep up with my second born when she runs through the house with a five pound bag of flour or all of the batteries she has swiftly removed from the TV remote.

Already today, I was licked on the face by a little sweetheart pretending to be a puppy dog, my eardrums were tested for their ability to withstand close-proximity screaming, I have already vacuumed up one child-made mess, and I was reminded as both of my children barged into the bathroom that I will never again pee in private.  Haven’t for over four years and won’t be anytime soon.

After the first cup of freshly brewed Starbucks, (oh how I missed you), Audrey wants to know, again, why we decided to have a second child.  She liked it, “with just one!” (Obviously.)  What kind of children am I raising, you might ask?  Well, let’s just say, so far, Mom’s delightful promise from years ago, which is sometimes referred to as a curse, might be coming true.

My sister was the perfect child.  I know this not because I was a witness.  Ahem, she is the oldest!  I know this because I was constantly reminded of it as a young, mischief-maker.  What goes on in my sister’s house in Boston?  Why there you might find my three-year-old niece politely sipping from an antique tea set while solving a Sudoku puzzle.  This proves my theory of the powerful Mom’s curse that was cast on me sixteen years ago. (Yes…do the math…Wow, I’m getting old!)  Evidently, older sister was perfect, and therefore, gets perfect child.  Sweet sixteen-year-old Sarah was…well, you get the picture.

Do I really believe in curses?  No.  But I’ll tell you what I do believe in…Coffee…Now, you must excuse me…There is a stampede running through my living room requiring my immediate attention, and someone has to be responsible here.  (Mom would be so proud.)