The F-word.

I’m not my best at 4am. Then again, show me someone who is.

Last night, everyone I live with made a subconscious decision to be very much awake and in some sort of need at 4am.

My son woke up to pee. Innocent enough, and while I’m very proud, he did it in a shrieking, freaking, panic-y sort of way: “Waaaahhhh peeeee waaaaahhhh peeeeeee!” Make that plural, since he had to go repeatedly in a 30 minute span, and throw a ‘kocky’ in there for good measure.

My husband, after helping son to the bathroom the first time, pulled a muscle in  his back. Heating pads, pillows on the floor, pressure pointing.

Then the hunger wail started. My daughter was hungry. Forever after. Wouldn’t let me put her down to help son with the on and off peeing. Wouldn’t let me put her down to get some kind of respectable sleep. She just loves me that much, you see.

At some point, my son was on the toilet, my husband was lying on the floor in agony, and my daughter was over my shoulder, when she wretched a liter of 2% down my back. As I grabbed a towel to mop up the mess, I looked up at nobody and figuratively threw up my hands:

“For fuck’s sake!”

I looked up and my son was staring at me. My little, innocent, delicious son, throned on the toilet, pants around the ankles, looking back at me.

“What dis?”

“What?” I exasperated.

“What dis?”

“What.” I spewed.



“It means… It means… Ima’s overwhelmed.”

Another wonderful, glorious, wouldn’t-give-it-up-for-anything night with the f-word.










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