Curse of the Lazy "A"

I’m a lazy type A personality. In fact I would say I’m more of a type B+. I do make lists, but then tend to lose them. I do have a routine schedule but tend to bastardize said routine to the point to where a Vietnamese train schedule during the south monsoon rainy season, is probably a tad more reliable. When I was married my husband would always comment the same way about my lost list or screwy schedule. “Good job, Felicia.”

However, there is one thing on my schedule I never allow myself to change. That beautifully blissful moment when I hear myself say the three little words mothers all around the world say as they look at their children with pridefulness. “Kids, it’s bedtime!”

The bedtime ritual at my house starts like this: I state that it’s bedtime in a clear, “Don’t make me open a can of whoop-ass,” kind of way. I then wait patiently for two to three minutes as my children basically bitch that I suck and I’m probably the worst mom in their vast and ever growing circle of frienemys. Every third night my youngest might even throw himself down on the ground and jerk his little body around, in an attempt to achieve a five-minute reprieve. One time I noticed that after he got up, he had made an angry little dust angel on my dirty, dog hair riddled, espresso stained floor.

We then slowly make our way to their bedroom; the two of them arguing over whose turn it is for me to cuddle with. I use to rotate whom I would cuddle with at the old house. But since the divorce, we’ve moved to a smaller house and they share a room, so now I prefer cuddling with my youngest on the lower bunk. Not just because I fear another hissy fit could make its way up on deck. But because there is only one thing I hate more than having to drag my flabby ass up the ladder of a bunk bed, and that is dragging my flabby ass down the ladder of a bunk bed.

On one recent night I opted to cuddle with my oldest because he had fever and had been klingy on me all afternoon, which I’d been secretly enjoying. Since he’s turned 8 he has started to wear his baseball hats backwards in an attempt to look gangsta. Because of this our relationship had shifted. Like earlier that day, I had asked him to pick up the spent yogurt containers from under the couch where they had been stashed after sneakily been eaten behind my back. He retrieved them without muttering a word but threw me a “Why you gotta hate on my largeness,” kind of look. I immediately shot back a “You better respect who not only put you in da game but opened the door 4 u 2 enter da game,” glare. So the thought that he wanted me to hold his fever riddled body, pleased me.

My youngest crawled into the lower bunk, too tired to throw his hissy, and I followed my oldest up the ladder into his bed. We faced each other and held hands as he told me about Jana, his second grade girlfriend, the last remnants of the grape flavored Motrin I had given him earlier, accompanied his breath. “Mom, Jana says that after her family, I’m the most important person in her life.” I marveled at the thought that not only is he sharing this with me, but also that a second grade girl is more eloquent in expressing her sentiments to the opposite sex then I ever could be. The phone rang. I held my breath and briefly prayed to God that it didn’t wake up my youngest, then noticed that my oldest was doing the same thing. On the second ring he warned, “He’s gonna wake up!” I put my finger on his lips to silence him. We lay there quietly, letting the answering machine beat the phone to the fourth ring. A moment passed before we heard a man’s voice. “It’s Daddy!” whispered my oldest. Once again, I put my finger up to his lips. “Hello… Felicia, you there? Boys, it’s Daddy… C’mon it’s me, pick up… Is anybody even home? Good job, Felicia!”

The phone went dead and we both let a moment pass before I spoke. “How did it make you feel when Jana told you that you were the most important person other than her family?” “Really good.” He countered tenderly then turned his back to me and closed his eyes. I lay there on the top bunk listening to each boy’s slow and rhythmic breathing, and thought satisfyingly, “Good job, Felicia.”