A, B, C, D, E, F, G...

My children are still awake. I know this because the lugubrious strains of the ABC song, duet version, are wafting from their room. Earlier I had to remove a box of wooden blocks from their possession. Before that it was Candyland.

Their bedtime was two hours ago.

If this was a weekend night, I wouldn't be too concerned. However, it is Wednesday night, and this means that in a matter of eight short hours (a little less, now) they will be required to rise from their beds, dress, and get out the door, cereal bars clutched in their bemittened hands, so that I won't be late for work. They will be whiny. They will be limp and uncooperative. The chances of my getting them to dress themselves are roughly 25 to 1. The chances that I will lose my limited morning temper and bark orders at them at some point are roughly 2 to 1. (You never know. Miracles do happen.)

...H, I, J, K, LMNOP...

I am lying on the bed in a t-shirt and highly attractive (heh) eleven-year-old purple sweatpants. It occurs to me that these are the sweatpants my soon-to-be-former-stepbrother-in-law purchased on the way to the hospital on Christmas Eve 1998 to pick me up. I had been there for three days recovering from the abdominal surgery that would later require me to have cesarean rather than vaginal births. My then-boyfriend had slept through his alarm and his roommate had turned off the phone ringer, so no one had shown up to drive me home that morning. In desperation, I called his stepbrother, with whom I attended college. I couldn't fit jeans over my swollen belly, so D. picked up a pair of sweatpants for me. He also paid my bill for fees not covered by insurance. I was so very grateful. The nurses had been growing restless.

This information is appropos of nothing other than it occurred to me. Also, these sweatpants are almost three times as old as DramaBoy and four times as old as The Widget.

...Q, R, S, T, U, V...

This afternoon was busy. My chiropractor remarked on the progression of my forehead's adornment and asked me if I'd get cosmetic surgery if the scar doesn't fade. I was a little taken aback. I mean, it's barely an inch long and just a little scar on my forehead.

No, I said. I'll just have a scar.

Oh, good, he responded, obviously surprised in turn. I guess it's good you're not very girly.

Really? Hasn't he seen my shoes? Actually, I know he has. He comments on them. I suppose what he means by "girly," however, is "high maintenance." He's pretty much right. I try to keep things fairly simple and low key in that regard.

Judging by his attitude, he must be familiar with a lot of high-maintenance women. And you know that old maxim Familiarity breeds contempt?

Yeah.

...W, X, Y and Z...

I took the boys to MacDonalds tonight, since it was late by the time I finished grocery shopping and picked them up from school. Then we took the car through a car wash, which DramaBoy loves and The Widget endures, hands firmly clasped over his sensitive ears. Finally we stopped at CVS to negotiate the transfer and refill of some medication. The pretty young pharmacist told me the wait would be thirty minutes. I looked over at my not-quite-rampaging offspring with some dismay and asked if there was any way they could rush it a bit. Obviously simultaneously charmed by my boys and sympathetic to my apprehension about keeping them contained that long, she said she'd see what they could do.

I was already fond of that CVS, but they have my deepest gratitude after tonight. Not only did they have a convenient little children's nook by the waiting area, stocked with crayons and coloring books and a random helium balloon, they managed to get the order processed in less than fifteen minutes. I was able to escort my hyper young sons out of the store before their patience ran out and any real damage could be perpetrated on defenseless merchandise.

It's nice to know that there are still people who care about customer service, even in the big chain stores. 

...now I know my ABCs, next time won't you sing with me.

There is silence now. I think they are finally asleep, with a mere seven hours and change before they have to get up. For that matter, I only have six and a half hours left before my cruel clock sounds its smug alarm. In the interests of peaceful dreams, I may need to convince my elderly, flatulent cat that she really doesn't need to sleep with me. I appreciate her desire to keep me from loneliness, but the odor she produces is considerably more expansive than her petite form would lead you to believe.

Bon nuit. It's time to investigate what messages my subconscious mind holds for me tonight.