May
9
Motherfickle
Filed Under Uncategorized | 43 Comments
On tap for the weekend: JB’s parents, visiting for a couple days on their way to Canada, whose grandparently presence will hopefully allow JB and I to escape on Saturday for dinner and a movie. This outing, should it occur as planned, shall serve as belated anniversary date (May 5, seven years!) and slightly premature Mother’s Day celebration, although . . . is it okay to celebrate Mother’s Day without the children? Because otherwise, let’s not lie, it’s less of a celebration and more, you know, business as usual.
Business, however, has greatly improved since my last post, which is — get ready for a big old no-shitter — the way parenting always seems to go. You get driven straight up the wall until you’re clinging to the ceiling, teeth chattering, hair standing on end, eyeballs comically protruding from your skull, index finger poised to hit the speed-dial option helpfully (and controversially) labeled “SIBERIA” . . . and then your toddler sweetly offers you a corner of his beloved blue blanket “so you can get comfable unda the blankie, Mommy”, and your 3-month-old sleeps right through the damn night, from 10 until 7, and wakes up cooing.
Sometimes it’s the unpredictable nature of all this that I love beyond measure, and sometimes I can’t help thinking, WHO DO I HAVE TO BLOW FOR A LITTLE CONSISTENCY AROUND HERE.
So! What are you up to this weekend?
May
8
To Dylan: If you keep refusing to sleep, even though you are bone-tired and yawning and rubbing your eyes, it will make you act even more horribly than you are, which is pretty fucking horrible. You don’t want to eat, you don’t want to be held, and you sure as shit don’t want to be put down, and the noise spiraling from your cry-hole is making my eardrums bleed. DO NOT LIKE.
To Riley: You know what? When you randomly drop toys all over the house all day long, you are bound to lose something. No, I don’t know where the hell your tiny plastic ladder is, and I’m sorry life has become such a shit sandwich as a result but I am frankly sick and tired of hearing about it. Is it really worth all the screaming? The loud, loud screaming? Your wailing and garment-rending is even more brain-burningly annoying than your brother’s, and I am seriously considering cramming both of you in the outgoing mail with “SIBERIA: OUTER” stamped on your asses.
What time is it? Why, I believe it’s ENFORCED NAPTIME. Booyah, motherfuckers:
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