Have you heard?
The east coast has a wee bit of snow. And by a wee bit, I mean eight foot drifts from five consecutive blizzards and an impending weather bomb. Sometime between storm one and two, I gave up on any semblance of order around here. The babies took over and now my place looks like a frat house after a wild weekend bender. You don’t believe me? Alright, I have no shame in exposing what we’ve become. Read on:
Formula or homo milk—pick your poison and binge drink your cares away, boys. Oh that’s fine. You can just leave your sippy cups and bottles willy-nilly around the house for me to trip over. Seriously, why can’t you guys just pick up after yourselves? Oh right, because you’re BABIES. SURE. Well, what do I look like your mother or something? Oh…wait a minute…
People passed out in random places
I don’t fight the nap anymore. I just let the toddler go bananas until he passes out over the arm of the chair or inside his four millionth blanket fort. The baby? He just yells like a drunk until he crashes too. It’s like Girls Gone Wild (only these kids are in fleece sleepers).
During storm two (or was it three?) the babies were so belligerent, I assumed they must be in pain. Toothache anyone? Feeling a bit warm? Well follow me down this sketchy alley (hallway) to this dank, dirty dungeon (bathroom) for a little hit of Baby Tylenol. There…suddenly….everything’s…not…so…bad…..
Half eaten snacks
Not a proud parenting moment, but I may or may not have said the following to the toddler: You are not allowed to watch any more Baby (sitter) Einstein until you eat every single crushed Goldfish cracker you ground into my carpet.
You know that girl who always cries at parties because her boyfriend broke up with her (again) because she always cries at parties? Well, I do, BECAUSE I’M HER. I have no shame admitting I am always the first (and only) adult in this house who cracks during a blizzard. It’s always around hour 42 after playing 25 rounds of Hide-and-Seek; changing forty bajillion diapers (why do they insist on pooping more during storms?); and diffusing a kajillion tantrums. That’s when it happens. It starts as a laugh—like I’m having a blast. It turns to a cackle then rotates between laughing and crying like when you get your wisdom teeth out and they give you that emotionally confusing gas. That’s when I become HER—the crying mess at the raging, out of control party.
The only difference is Husband can’t break up with me.
NO, not because he “Put a Ring on It” you Beyonce lovin’, old-fashioned weirdo.
Because there are eight foot drifts around the periphery of our house trapping him inside. He couldn’t leave me if he tried MWAH HAH HAH HAAAHHHHHH.