Busted Lip

3:47 PM, not Naptime, not Morning Time. It’s Pig Time. Cartoon Time. Jack and Fiona are watching Charlotte’s Web 2, the volume low, the babies quiet. Fed blackberries, turkey and cheese crepes, blueberries, a piece of bran muffin, just as I was writing this there is a scuffle, Fiona is in Jack’s space. I have to tell her to get back in her spot, they each have a table and chair. I bring out more berries, a few crackers and juices in cardboard boxes with the little straws. They are content again, but I’m still not sure how much time I have to write. The dishes need to be done and the dinner cooked. I had some time to paint today. Naptime paintings. The babies had a good long nap, even when I heard one of them wake up crying, I waited till the crying stopped before I went in. Now Jack has moved next to Fiona, which is fine because she’s at a two-person table. They are being very cute right now. “No mine” Fiona says. “No My water” Jack says. “Mama”. Here comes Fiona. Then Jack. Fiona asks for more. “Show me” I say, then open the fridge. She points to several things. “You want this?” “No” then when we get to the cheese, she takes two slices, but it could be because she enjoys separating the cheese from the white paper. Jack takes a piece of crepe, he peels it off the thin plastic sheet, takes a bite, “Mama eat” hands it to me. Now they are both activated, maybe it was the sugar from the juice and berries. They are running around. Fiona is standing up on her little green chair. “Sit down” I say from the kitchen, “no” she says. Now they are watching T.V. again. Peaceful again. The sky is grey, the California Red Bud covered with white blossoms. Time to start dinner, gather the trash, put to the curb, do dishes, and put away clean laundry from the other day. Just as I finish writing I hear a bang, a fall, and my little girl is now in my lap eating a frozen stick of yogurt with a fat bloody lip. It happened from climbing up a step stool I left out so they could reach the books. But they decided to climb higher, to the shelf the TV sits on. The End.

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About Dirty Laundry Blog

Thoughts on Motherhood Through the Eyes of an Artist