10:30 am on a Monday morning.
The kids are quiet. Quiet because they are asleep. Their morning nap in full swing. The kids are quiet, but the house starts to tick noisily.
The unfolded pile of laundry on the couch chatters incessantly. From the sink, plates covered in syrup and empty sippy cups smeared with mashed banana weep and weep and weep. The whining hamper, stuffed with a weekend's worth of unwashed clothes drones on and on and on.
I try to escape the melee. I wander down the hall, where I hear it. The loudest call of all. My unmade bed. It sings a Siren's song. A white, downy comforter, still in bunches crashes like a wave against my pillow, still seemingly indented from a morning of leaving it too soon.
The rumpled bed, my dangerous Siren, beckons me to come closer. I long to dive into the welcoming, treacherous waters. I inch closer, wanting to drown in a sea of idleness,
and take a nap.