Ten Minutes that Don't Exist

   Today is the third day that I woke up with a stabbing lower back ache.  I've convinced myself that it's sciatica, but I can walk, so it's not as sever a case as I last remember having.  My two kids don't see that.  They see grumpy, they see slow moving, and overall unhappy mommy.
   I remember being 'the kid' not so long ago, and for the first time in 30 years, I can identify with how mom must have felt.
   ALL I NEED is ten minutes!!!  Ten minutes; to stretch, to slather myself in Icy Hot or some other atrocious smelling gel. Ten minutes to channel surf, eat with my fingers, try on a cocktail dress and pretend I'm speaking with the queen-just for the fun of it.  To do that nervous pick at my lips as I worry about everything that I have no control over.  To view my silhouette in a clear full length mirror, inspecting every fold, flap, and follicle until sheer disgust settles in.  Just 600 seconds to unwind, rejuvenate, invest in myself.

TRY saying no to this face!

   But then there comes that knock....
   "Yes?"
   "Mommy?  I just have one thing to tell you."
   My eyes do a severe roll to the innards of my brain.  It may just be one thing, but it's going to take an hour to explain just what it is to me.
   She moves into the room slowly, as if waiting stage right for her cue to enter.  I tap the side of the bed to where she jumps up and all I can see is her mass of tight blond curls and a full  set of Tiny Bite Size Chicklet teeth.
   "Is your back still broken?"  She says as she tries to pull her hair away from her face.
   I nod my head before slowly reclining in bed.
    "I can give you a massage."  Joycee smiles.
    "Not today honey."
     Her curved smile has turned into a strait line.
    As much as I'd like to try and stick with ten mommy minutes, I know that she's not going to be a kindergartner forever.  In the nearer than I 'd like to admit future, the one sixth of an hour that I try to steal away for myself will karmic-ly be given to me when she becomes a teen in need of her own private time.  Maybe we can meet somewhere in between.
   "I don't need a massage, but I'd love for you to brush my hair.  Can you do that for me?"  I suggest.
    The beam is back and she is gone, reappearing seconds later (only the way a 6 year old can) with the massive curling brush I use to blow my hair. Yes, it's going to pull the hair out by the root and friz the lucky strays that get away-
but in the long run, I call it an investment in time.