Thursday, January 27, 2011


There are two things in this world that I am certain of.


I'm not cut out for this mothering shit.  And it keeps getting more and more difficult.  I spent Monday home with two sick and miserable kids.  The miserable part is normal, as they seem to exist in this state the majority of the time right now.  But the sick part certainly moved it from code yellow to orange in this mom's ability to handle whiny and inconsolable children.  We all came out of it alive and with no visible marks, so I'll call that day a success.  It did it's part to set up an exhausting and stress filled week, though.

Evie has been having some sleep issues as of late.  She'll wake up screaming and can't be comforted.  If I get in bed with her, she does the dying fish flex and flop move while kicking me with her heels for about 30 minutes until she falls asleep.  It's not fun, and it hurts.  She is usually okay if we pull her in bed with us, but Tuesday night was not being kind to us.  3:30 wake up call found her in bed with us, where she simultaneously runs her fingers through my hair and twists the fingers of her other hand around Mike's locs.  Just as she was drifting off, she startled while yelling choo choo and proceeded to cry.  Scream, would be more accurate.  Screaming in our room isn't an option, so every nerve of my body fired up while the realization that I was going to have to get up with her hit me.  And as I snatched her little body up out of the bed, the following words came out of my mouth:

"FUCK.  Shut up".

To really understand the classiness of this moment, you need to picture my teeth clenched and using a full three second count while hissing/growling/yelling the fuck part of this humdinger.  Followed by the crisp and loud shut up portion that rained spittle for a good 4 feet.  Fortunately for everyone involved, Mike took over and was up with her that shift.  But the damage was done.  It couldn't be unsaid, and I still can't seem to bring myself to feeling the level of guilt that this situation should probably cause in me.


April, under no circumstances, should ever get new knives again.  I'm closing in on two months with this set of new knives that I bought.  I moved from knives so dull that I had to stab the tomatoes to break through the skin and smush the "blade" through the rest, all while mangling said tomato.  New knives?  Wicked sharp.  And I have cut the shit out of my hands and fingers, including five pretty significant cuts, enough times that my kids are now asking if we're having the OTHER other white meat with their dinner again.  Monday left me with a cut that bled for 30 minutes and probably should have been stitched.  It's very difficult to not get nervous now, every time I have to use them.  And we all know what nerves do for our fine motor skills.  I had better get this figured out, I don't have much flesh left.

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