Jack Pot

I tossed and turned. I sat up. I fluffed my pillow. I laid back down. I tugged at the down comforter. Shane and I finished the ever so uplifting joyful “Revolutionary Road” in the living room. Too exhausted to pick up the kitchen, we headed upstairs to bed. During my transit to work and back, I’ve been reading and fulfilling my objective for the year. I’m halfway through the laugh out loud Julie & Julia. Plus, everyone that knows me, knows that I’m poisoned by television. I’m still feeling a little remorse subsequent to passing over the Law & Order: SVU marathon last Saturday, due to prior family engagement. I flipped through the cable channels and low and behold, the new season of "Big Love". It was nine o’clock and I should smartly get some rest, instead I was reeled into the high drama exciting world of Mormon and polygamy.

Stevie melted in my arms earlier this evening. I was prepared to stay up later, Lola, her kick *ss caretaker, advised that she had a three hour afternoon nap along with three large bowel movements to boot. She was in her crib dreaming of plowing destructively through Hunter's perfectly constructed train tracks, grazing on cheerios, and a clean diaper. Hunter, my sweet stubborn weed, rooted to stay up late. After some persistence, I coaxed himself to bed. Actually, I can't take credit, he put himself to bed. I don't know how. I don't know what. I didn't care. He was down, so crack open that bourbon and pour me a stiff one.

There I lay, in my 800 thread count sheets infested with cereal crumbs and dog dandruff enjoying my polygamy. The evening was grand. Shane's reached the perfect sleeping altitude, his mouth gaped open with the raucous of a buzz saw in the direction of my left ear. I’ve learned this trick years ago via trial and error, turning him on his side lulls the snoring orchestra. On his side, the orchestra lulled.


It was ten o’clock and the household was harmonious. Chelsea Lately was on with guest Giulliana and Bill Rancic. I was a big fan of Chelsea and her jugular vein wit, but never thought much of Giulliana, “to the Jersey Shore crew if your watching, you're not Italian, you're not Italian. I was born in Italy and you're Italian. Sorry.” The slender E Host was adamant and proud of her true Italian roots. Suddenly, I felt a certain affinity towards the sleek and charming Italian that verbally put up her dukes.

“They’re definitely from New Jersey,” Chelsea intervened, “Believe me, I’m from New Jersey and I can assure you, they're from New Jersey. People from New Jersey, they have that certain lack of something.” All this was triggered by the MTV Jersey Shore show that has the entire nation captivated. I was beyond captivated, I couldn't wait for the upcoming episode. Yo, extra butter on that microwave popcorn. I was riveted.

I feared soon as I delved into the lush jungles of sleep, I would be awoken by the wails and tantrums of Sir Hunter. Four thirty something the night before, Hunter crawled into bed, munching on a frozen blueberry waffle. The crumbs toppled on my sleeping head. He further managed to go downstairs, open the freezer door, grab the last waffle, but not his first. He proceeded upstairs back into our bed to finish off his second serving of frozen blueberry waffle. I was too flopped to reprimand the situation, it’s not like he’d fall ill and die from frozen waffles. Right? “Why is the blueberry waffle box in the compost?” Shane, deep sleeper extraordinaire and oblivious to son's early morning hunger initiative, discovered suspicious activity had gone about the kitchen last night.

I should be getting some snoozers, instead I flipped through the channels like a zombie. Brains. I need Brains. My brain swelled I was experiencing a mild neurotic breakdown. The silence was discomforting. Has Stevie suffocated? Maybe she couldn't’t breath and suffocated between the crib bumper and mattress meet. Maybe she choked on a detachable tire that Hunter threw into the crib as a gesture of sharing. Perhaps, she pulled the blanket over her head, oxygen is limited. It's too quiet. Did Hunter stick his finger in the electrical outlet and managed to remove the childproof socket locket. I couldn’t take it anymore and made haste to their room across the hall. Stevie hummed her sweet little breath, her chest rise and fall. I put my ear closer to make sure her breathing was regulated. Hunter lay with his Hawaiian quilt gentle breathing, still as air.

I turned the television off. Coming from a family of ten siblings, noise always settled the madness of my thoughts that scurried like rats in the attic. My mind hostage to the terrorists of thoughts. I better kickstart this writing project like pronto! Would I hide behind a pen name or use my real name? Maiden name. Married name. My maiden name is sexy. Kitchen just doesn't suit me. Sterile. Oh my god, the kitchen is a mess. Maybe I'll get up early and do the dishes tomorrow. Wait tomorrow is today. What am I cooking for dinner tomorrow, I mean today? Bananas. I should make use of those soon to be rotten bananas and bake banana muffins and give it to Hunter's day care and Stevie's care taker. Fudge and fiddlesticks! I need to order groceries for the office. Office work, maybe I'll go in on Saturday to catch up. Nah, I'll take the laptop home and export the folders and files from there. Did I send that email to our bookkeeper? Ugh, tuition. Hunter's tuition. Tuition assistance? Private preschool. Public. Mortage, it's due in a couple days! Why don't we have a calendar! That way I can record birthdays. Family. We need to get on this family vacation. New York. Portland for wedding. Other vacation possibilities. Hawaii. Hmmm. I'll never be able to rock a two piece bathing suit. Increase cardio workout, stick to your calorie count. Mini tummy tuck. I wonder, if it's free if I agree to be followed around with cameras on Dr. 90210. The new Beverly Hills 90210 sucks. I'm so tired. I need to get up earlier to juice vegetables for my breakfast smoothie. Yummy, steam vegetables for dinner. Heck, steamed vegetables for breakfast! After an hour of exercising my mental knots, the pitter patter of the rain outside cooed me down.

It was seven fifteen in the morning. I made it. We made it. The kids did it. Stevie Day joyfully played with Shane. “They slept through the night and Hunter's still asleep,” he was proud of the large feat. “Wow. Crazy right?” I was Rocky Balboa running up the Philly Museum of Art stairs, getting stronger.

I headed downstairs with Stevie in my arms. I had to take my one on one time where I could get it. It was an atrocity that she spent more time with her care taker then her parents. It's a sour lemon to swallow. Stevie Day was my cuddle bunny, if ever there was one. Beaming with glee, we danced in the living room as she lay on my chest smiling and I whizzed her around, “My cuddle bunny, sweet, as pie. My cuddle bunny, I swing, so high. My cuddle.”
His bed mane wild like a lion, “momma,” he pointed, “cereal.”
“We’re out of cereal, love we have oatmeal?”
“Ohmeal, momma, oahmeal.” Hunter head on Shane’s shoulder pulled the strings for he was the puppet master.

I scrambled around getting his oatmeal ready. Stevie self amused in her activity center content with binky in mouth. The oatmeal took ten minutes from start to finish, I prayed that Hunter would wait patiently. Maybe I was asking for too much after last night’s peaceful performance. He didn’t as he whined, “ohmeal, momma, ohmeal, momma, ohmeal, momma.”
“Alright, love, please stop your whining. It’s coming.” I poured him some fresh orange juice to buy myself some time. Snaggle tooth! The mush was hot off the pot. Steam bellowing over the bowl, “Hunter it’s hot, so let’s blow on it.” We both blew as he half whined and cried. I added some drama to his meal by sprinkling brown sugar and cooling it off with some milk.

Shane released the barkers to the backyard. As I flossed, the door opened and closed, there sat little Miss Stevie Day staring at her reflection in the mirror. Goshdarnit. The bathroom was my lethal escape from the kids. There she sat, on the filthy floor, that is the bathroom. Gross. I’ve learned as a parent, means being ten steps ahead of your kids and having eyes behind your head. I proceeded to apply black gunk to my short lashes meanwhile observing her stationary stance. I was reluctant afraid she would wander further into the bathroom. Please note that our bathroom is the size of a traditional New York apartment, giant! It’s obnoxiously roomy that one would be saturated with guilt when it was toilet time. The house was purchased under the assumption that a major remodel was in the near future. One faulty financial crash, government bail out, and five years later, we remain stuck to the barf pink pepto bismol bathtub with pedestal sink to match.

I opened the bathroom door to release the Stevie into the wild. Hunter monopolized the playroom with Thomas and his homies train tracks in the middle of the room. Peculiar, my son lured my daughter into the bathroom so he was free of crawling menace and disaster monger. “Momma, close the door. Momma, close the door. Please momma?” Gasp. Did I just hear what I thought I heard? There it was the magic word of all words. Did I hear right? “Please momma?” There it was again! I swooped Stevie Day up and closed the door behind me, “Sure Hunter. Of course.” If he asked me for the keys to the car, I would’ve gladly relinquished it. There it was, bright as sunshine on this gray of a rainy day. The polite word fell perfectly from his lips. Today, I walk among the giddy. Proud.

This is Shellie from San Francisco’s BrainWash laundromat, “This cycles on me!” back to you Bob at the studio!