Reality: I have Luke, whose poopy diapers carve such a vile stench into the air, visitors have been known to retch and take their coffee in the ice-box we call "the porch."
Daydream: I am the kind of woman whose cardigan-over-a-white-t-shirt-and-jeans ensemble looks fresh and casual, but pretty. Pulled together. Polished.
Reality: I am often too lazy to shower first thing in the morning and end up grabbing a hooded sweatshirt and jamming a baseball cap over my unwashed (but pigtailed) hair. Like Red from Fraggle Rock, only fatter.
Daydream: I am the kind of woman who, when you pop by unannounced, is sipping a chai tea at the table, listening to son read aloud, whilst sunlight streams through the (streak-free) window and classical music plays lightly in the background.
Reality: Yesterday's coffee reheated in the microwave for the second time has grown cold. While First Son refuses to sound out the word "cat" and carefully arranges his features into blank nothingness, I am red-faced with frustration and jabbing at the letters on the page, screeching, "You KNOW this one. Yes, you do! You do SO! Sound it out, NOW!"
The classical music station is drowned out by Second Son singing "O Canada" while he bats a tin-foil ball across the living room with his father's golf clubs - ones he has been implicitly told not to use...
Daydream: My workspace is clutter-free save the pretty fabric-covered basket meant to temporarily hold bills which are paid on time and immediately filed into their appropriate and cross-referenced folders.
Reality: At any given time, our huge desk is covered with artwork, cold coffee cups, dinky cars and for some inexplicable reason, pieces of dry dog food that the even the dog won't eat. The fabric basket IS the filing cabinet and I think I put paid bills away sometime in 2008, two houses and one city ago.
Daydream: High-backed antique settee plus chaise lounge, lovingly restored in luxury fabrics grace my front room. Soft wall-sconce lighting spills onto my gleaming hardwood floors and fresh flowers from the garden brighten every room.
Reality: Aztec-design on 25 year-old couch that is a hand-me-down from my parents. Sags. Springs are shot and I cannot for the life of me get the mustard stain off one arm. Perfect for bouncing on. The floors are indeed hardwood, but are dotted with paint from the previous owner's love affair with bright, happy (read: psychosis-inducing) colour. My floor lamps are from Sears and tilt at alarming angles by day's end.
Garden? What garden?
Daydream: Children who cover their mouths when they cough, don't giggle when they toot, sneeze anywhere but DIRECTLY AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN while snuggling as Mama types and who pee into the toilet.
Reality: Farting is hilarious to my children. I have no idea why. Their father is the same way. I can't explain that, either. Snuggles are good - I'll take 'em when I can get 'em. Luke's pee forgets to listen and poop well...it happens, right?
And you? What's your reality?