Are We There Yet?
Around this house, mom can only dream of sleep
Lori Clinch

Last Thursday was one long day. I had a stint with paperwork, an exhausting time with housework, and then I got caught in line behind some nut who apparently was applying for a mortgage at the bank via the drive-up window.

There were children to run, errands to do, and I'll be danged if we didn't hurry into the store for a gallon of milk and walk out with three heaping shopping carts.

By the time I'd made supper, did the dishes and tossed in 12 to 14 loads of laundry, I was exhausted. At 9 o'clock I plunked down in the chair, closed my eyes and longed for a Calgon moment to take me away.

Just when my muscles had started relaxing, my mind had stopped reeling and my respiration had finally slowed to normal, I felt the presence of one of my darlings.

Now, any woman who is any kind of woman would know that one should take advantage of a time that a child appears at her side. After all, children are precious creatures, God's creations and Norman Rockwell's moments.

And, they grow so fast.

Yet, as my little darling stood there hoping that I'd open my eyes, I squeezed them shut and prayed that he'd go away. After all, every seasoned parent knows that a child doesn't appear at your side to tell you they love you. Oh, shoot no! Children have papers they need to be signed, Neolithic ages they need to study, and in-depth analysis on manifestos that need to be examined and scrutinized and documented in today's language.

Their homework is the worst, and Lord knows I've done my share. During my time as a mother, I've studied Congress, artistic expression and current events. We as a family have spent hours searching for members of the arthropod family, days constructing solar systems, and when push came to shove, I once created a replica of a cell out of a cake mix with a ball of Spam for its nucleus.

My kids have been known to wake an innocent mother out of a dead sleep to ask how she was with small engines. So, when I heard the proverbial homework bell ring, I was not about to be the one who answered it.

Alas, my child was nothing if not dedicated to his cause. First he cleared his throat, and when he got no response he shuffled his feet. Then he cracked his knuckles and dropped his book with a loud thud. Finally he leaned over, drew close to my ear and hollered, "Mom, can you help me with my stuff?"

Instead of answering, I remained still. My child might have been dedicated, but I was experienced at faking a good slumber. I snuggled in, breathed deeply, and when the moment seemed right, I tossed in a snore for good measure.

"I know you're faking," he roared. "I saw you blink."

"Why?" I asked as I pulled the covers up to my chin, "Why should I help you?"

"Because I do stuff for you."

"Really?" I responded as I opened one eye. "Do you remember the last time I asked you to assist me around the house?"

"Yes, I was quite the little helper."

"You call that help? I had to ask you 20 times to pick up your room."

"So, I like vacuumed the basement."

"That wasn't vacuuming, you pushed the appliance through each room one time and called it a day."

"Well, I'm not a neat freak, but I tried."

"You didn't even turn it on."

"What's it going to take to get you to help?"

"For starters, you're going to have to do some major sucking up."

He stood there for a moment and I could almost see the wheels spinning in his cute little head. Then he cracked his knuckles, shook the tension out of his arms and jumped up and down in place a couple of times like a boxer rising to the challenge. He finally posed in a stance, braced himself and said, "You know, you look great." When he saw my frown soften, he took heart and added, "So, like, are you losing weight or what?"

Call me shallow if you must, but the little dear had me at "so."

"Say no more, you darling child," I said as I rose from the chair. "Tell me what you need."

"Well, I have an eight-page study guide that I need you to help me memorize, I need a costume that makes me look like Michael the Archangel, and if you could brush me up on the facts and statistics of the American Revolution, that'd be great."

Instead of faking sleep, next time I'm going for a coma.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.