In March, I told myself life would get easier in April once Big Guy was out of school for the month and the morning rush was exchanged for an extra hour’s sleep.

In April, I told myself life would get easier in May once Big Guy was back to school and we could end the nightly insanity of trying to rassle the guys into bed at a decent hour so I could get to work.

In May, I told myself life will get easier In June, once karate class and baseball season are over and there’s only one birthday in the month instead of four.

By the middle of May, I realized that was all a bunch of self-delusional baloney.

It’s not going to get better, not for the next 10 years at least. It’s going to get worse – we have only one kid in sports now. Just wait until we’re shuttling between two practices and two games each week. I complained in March about a single hectic weekend. They’re all like that now.

In June, we have the rest of baseball season and end-of-school field trips and festivities. The one birthday on the calendar is Boots’, which is the equivalent of going to four parties for other people.

In July, Dad finishes training and we’ll figure out to where we’re moving and when. Eventually. Then comes Big Guy’s birthday. Then figuring out where and when to sign up for soccer and school, depending on when and where we move.

In August … ack. I don’t even want to think that far ahead. I do need to stop using red ink for  “must do” calendar entries, though. The page winds up looking like someone bled on it. It’s doing bad things to my stressometer.

Part of the problem is the guys refuse to acknowledge the 24-hour day – they get that from me. Even without a party, practice or event on the calendar, there’s always something they “need” to do. Plant vegetables. Make a school-bus cake. Collect rocks. Rent movies. Go to the park.

But the problem also is the reward. I spent years learning to decorate cakes and dreaming of creating them for my own kids. How dare I gripe now that I’m living the dream?

And the truth is, I am living the dream. It’s a lot more chaotic than I remembered from when I was a kid, but my mom held paying jobs only briefly. It’s also considerably lacking in the “me” time all the magazines tell me I need. The “me” time I honestly don’t miss – I had decades of it before the guys, and I’ll have it again after.

Sleep I do miss. Maybe I can schedule that for August. Meanwhile, I need to stop using red ink on the calendar. I really don’t have time to shop for a new stressometer if the old one explodes.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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