The clock ticked to 8:30 PM and my mind fogged over under the weight of sleeplessness. Son sat on the floor checking his stability with one hand while trying to read the board book with the other. Daughter was practicing the art of procrastination.
I need more toothpaste, as she sucked the dollop off that had already been provided.
Let’s do it over here, as she lays down out of arms reach and looks up with an impish grin.
I want to sit on your lap. Let’s lay on our tummies. I want to sit in the rocking chair.
Did I have the strength to face prayers? Thoughts were incomplete, brain misfiring, bed my utter temptation. Next to me Son began to whimper with fatigue. My actions deceived my devoutness as I consciously did not mention it.
Prayers! yelped the sharp two-year-old mind, knowing she was about to be swooped up.
I’m so tired and it’s late. Let’s skip tonight. She conceded and hugged her monkey tight as I wrapped her in her blanket and laid her in the crib. Son followed without complaint. The guilt of denying my child her prayers seeped under my skin as I walked down the hallway and sank into my sheets.
The next morning Husband was kind enough to get the children up. As I tied my robe and blindly stepped down the stairs I heard an echo down the hall of unsolicited reporting,
Momma said it was too late last night so we didn’t do prayers.