The end is here and I made it. I can think of plenty of cheesy songs by various recording artists that would adequately describe what I am feeling, but I will spare you all that. As I sit here eating, savoring each delicious Rolo that I found in my purse I can relax just a little knowing that the long dreary, dreadful weekend is behind me. I have only 2 more bedtimes as a single mother before Don comes home. Not sure why that thought is comforting as I will still be doing all the parenting, disciplining and shouting. Thursday he’ll be gone again. Instead of worrying about what is to come I should celebrate what is behind me. I should pop open a bottle of champagne… at least a bottle of Ambien, but what good will that do me when I know for certain that I little blonde, hazel-eyed toddler will be hollering for me in a few hours forcing me to drag my leaden body out of bed, across the room and hallway and into the nursery, lift up the medicine ball-like weight with hazel eyes and blonde hair and tuck him in to be beside me kissing away any hope for a decent night’s sleep. It’s been two and a half years since I have slept through the night. My toddler is terrified of the dark… One child has a bad dream and another can’t breathe. I tell them all that breathing is over-rated and if enough air can pass your lips so that I can hear and understand what you’re saying, you’re breathing well enough. No one is amused. Funny, I am not amused to get up at 4:00 am and find the appropriate medicines and pour them in the nebulizer’s small medicine cup without spilling. Small children can fall back asleep. Big babies can not. I am the latter. Often my day starts at 4:00 am. If a little blonde boy has been performing bedside calisthenics upon his Mama for the past few hours I may be lucky enough to fall asleep. I have no idea what it feels like to feel well rested. I have no idea what energy is. My Rolos are not giving me energy — not that I want it at 9:30 at night — but they taste mighty good, and are the highlight of my day. I can thank my two year old kleptomaniac for it though. Last week we were at the grocery store, the one I hate. The one where they only have one lane open and 50 people on line. I have no idea why I went there but I did. Alexander was hungry and helped himself to a pack of Rolos. (Good choice) I was about to put them back on the shelf when I noticed he had gnawed away at some of the gold foil and some of the chocolate itself. I let him have that one piece and placed the re-wrapped candy on the conveyor belt. After it had been swiped through the cashier put it aside with my issue of Food — Shhh, I am not supposed to be bringing home any more magazines! I put both in my bag. The magazine came out at home but the Rolos remained zipped away. I was so damned happy to find them. It was better than finding a twenty dollar bill left behind in a raincoat from last spring. As good as a Latte from Starbucks. The Rolos served as a small trophy, my victory over the weekend. My victory over the blue tube of yogurt that Alexander squeezed out and painted all over the kitchen floor. My victory over the gallons of water he poured over it to try to clean it before I would find it. The Rolos were my victory over the bickering kids, over the pee-pee accidents Alexander had non-stop this weekend. They were my victory over actually getting the dishwasher unloaded, baskets of laundry folded and put away. Over getting Rebecca’s hair washed. Over going to a birthday party on the wrong day. The Rolos served as my trophy for not losing it altogether when I found Christopher’s dirty and missing socks behind his bed and in his Power Rangers toys. The Rolos were my reward for finding the strength to make Banana Pancakes and making me kind enough to spread Nutella on top. The Rolos were my reward for every single toy I picked up. And every bed I made. Sadly the Rolos are now all gone. Some reward.