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Sometimes I wish the pancakes would just flip themselves.

Sometimes I wish I could steal a cup of coffee mid-brew without being ferally hissed at by the machine.

Sometimes I wish that I was half as smart and resourceful as the person who plays me at night in my dreams.

Sometimes, when my daughter might feel just a touch warm, I wish the thermometer didn’t read 97.9 in one ear, and 103.5 in the other.

Sometimes I wish the body pillow I’ve been using nightly since my second pregnancy seven years ago, would whisper things to me like “there, there” and “it’s ok.”

Sometimes, when rushed to catch a flight, I wish I hadn’t been so eager to get my youngest out of diapers, as jamming into the bi-weekly cleaned restroom stall with her, and lovingly papering the seat, may possibly be the seventh level of hell.

Sometimes I wish I knew if bi-weekly meant twice a week, or every two weeks.

Sometimes I wish that I had made banana bread with my rotting bananas because putting them in the fridge only made them cold, rotten bananas.

Sometimes I wish that I was as brazen as those people who don’t press “stop” and just balls-to-the-wind open the microwave while it’s still on.

Sometimes I wish my children’s feet would grow proportionate to their developmental tolerance for shoe-shopping.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t seen the one person today who I also saw yesterday, because it was a really good outfit that deserved a repeat performance.

Sometimes I wish Saturday night wasn’t trying so hard.

Sometimes I wish I knew what team of plastic surgeons the cast of Fuller House retained, and how I can reach them. I wish they called the remake Filler House.

Sometimes I wish that I’d just been straight-up with the salesperson that I’m not a size two, so I didn’t have to waste so much time trying on clothes that I know won’t fit, but was flattered that she thought they might.

Sometimes I wish I remembered that if it looks bad on the model online, there's not a shot in hell that it's going to look good on me.

Sometimes I wish the delivery would arrive before the exact moment that I am peevishly calling to complain about it.

Sometimes I wish I had ordered the cheeseburger. The juicy, overflowing, messy, satisfying burger. And ate it in front of my friends. Sober.

Sometimes I wish I never, ever had to watch my husband eat corn on the cob.

Sometimes I wish my children didn't suddenly request the ratty toy that I just threw away, after not having played with it, asked for it, or acknowledged its existence for 3 years prior.

Sometimes I wish the school would stop sending home so much artwork. And paper notices reminding us to have our children wear green on Earth Day.

Sometimes I wish my kids knew that the placid-turned-irritated-turned-angry-turned-desperate-turned-demonic mommy that fought the good fight for them to “GO TO BED!!” is the same weepy mess who hovers over their pillow for an hour watching them sleep, after binge-watching THIS IS US.

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