My Life as a Donkey

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Yesterday I stood in the midst of my disaster and wondered how I got here.  This wasn’t what I planned.  This isn’t what I imagined.  What did I plan?  What did I imagine?

I imagined my life would be clean, crisp, white walls, white curtains, white trim.  I imagined my kitchen would be bigger.  My closet would look more like a Nordstrom’s catalog.  My children would have gel in their hair and the fridge would display two neatly orchestrated art projects that my children made with their nanny.

My wandering mind was interrupted by Gus asking me to get down on all fours so he could ride me.  He wanted me to be his donkey.  Not even a horse.  A donkey.  And I did it.  He giggled endlessly as I hee hawed and attempted to buck him off.  When he laid on the floor I gave his exposed belly a raspberry.  He couldn’t even contain himself.  I told him I loved him.  “Love you too, mommy.”

That wasn’t in the image of my perfect life.  My image was just that, an image.  Where there are no dirty dishes,  that means there are no conversations about bike races at preschool after dinner.  I do dishes instead.  In a world where there are no wet bathroom floors, there are no bathtub fishing expeditions.  Where there are no piles of books, there are no bedtime stories.

In my dream I was a show horse.  Well groomed and living in a stable with whole grain oats and fresh vegetables.  But it was likely a lonely life.  My life as a donkey is a lot of fun.  There are sticky hands because we bake cookies together.  There is only one open garage stall because we need a place for our baseball bats, hockey nets, and basketball hoop.  The life of a loved donkey is so much better than the life of a lonely show horse.

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