It Starts in the Morning

I've got to do something about my mood in the mornings.

It all starts with breakfast. After having four children in six years (like a crazy person), you would think by now I've accepted a quiet breakfast is not in the cards for me.

Many times Tyler has listened to my appalled griping that I can't even have five minutes to myself. He has not opted for the "girl, I hear you" response, either. He listens quietly, and I am convinced that at least 60 percent of the time he is thinking "how is this a surprise to you?"

(Alas, he married a rather verbose woman. He's learned a lot about taking the good with the bad, as we do).

The thoughts I project on him make an excellent point. What is the deal with my expectations?

I am mystified when certain parties end up in certain places, emptying out certain drawers onto the floor.

I am flabbergasted when I find a boy playing trains under his bed during nap time. (You may understand this once you see him, napless, around five or six the same evening).

I am thunderstruck when, instead of sitting in their seats, ready to take off the minute mommy is ready, these boys are happily checking out the interior of mom's very cool minivan.



To sum up as succinctly as I can, expectations. I must manage them. And while it may seem I'm just randomly throwing pictures of my kids in here, each represents a situation where I said to myself, "you have got to be kidding me."

I need to banish that phrase from my vocabulary. Because as we know, children are not. Kidding us.