Some Days Blow.
Oh, hey. I am just having another mutha of a day over here where I actually had to stop myself (a few times) from clawing my children to death. You know those moments where you clench your fists and grit your teeth and you feel like your body might actually explode?
And if you are waiting for some crazy, unbelievable story of misbehavior you aren’t getting it. Because I actually can’t even think of any big events that happened, it was just one of those days with a million tiny battles that make you want to drink heavily before 5pm. A day that started with me thinking that I wanted to soon-ish have a third baby and ended with me wanting to get my tubes tied, twice, just to be sure.
Team Dick did not listen to me once. Like, they actually did not listen to ONE single thing that I said all day. Rex actually is in this really fun phase where I tell him not to do something, and then he smiles and looks right at me and does it anyway. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I try ‘time out’ on the stairs and it always backfires—usually because he just continuously runs away, or ends up trying to stick his head through the rails, or Rocky ends up trying to climb up to be with him and then trying to nose dive back onto the ground. I always end up either giving up because I actually just don’t have the energy. I know, I know--- parenting 101 and I am failing miserably.
Anyway, back to my complaining. So I spent the entire day yelling and saying “no. stop. don’t.” seven thousand time. At one point Rex even fired off at me, “Mom, you are acting really grumpy!” Yeah no shit! Maybe because you threw yourself on the floor of target because I wouldn’t buy you a toy, cracked your brother over the skull with a light saber, threw a full bottle of chocolate milk at my head while I was driving, and chewed a hole in your shirt “because you did”. Yes, I am grumpy.
Oh, and remember when I told you about “The Axel Show” on Youtube? Well, if you forget, it is a Youtube channel where a weird dad tapes himself playing with his son doing all kinds of stuff and makes probably a shit-ton of money doing it. Weird dad narrates all of the videos and tell all “the kids” what he is doing. (ie: “Hey kids, today we are bringing our dump trucks to the beach! See, kids? See these cool wheels?—whatever, you get it.) Well, Rex spent the majority of the day making me “talk to the kids”. No, seriously. I would tell him it was time for lunch and was met with, “Mom! Tell the kids!” So there I was, staring off into nowhere looking like a fucking asshole saying, “Hey kids! It’s time for Rex to eat his lunch! He’s going to have grilled cheese, kids!” And a couple of days ago I made Rex dinner and asked him if he liked it. “Yeah, mom. I do like it! And if you like it, comment below!” Say whaaaaa? Yeah, I actually couldn’t believe it so I made him repeat it. “I saaaaaaaid, comment belowwwwww!” Matt heard it too. Poor Rex. What a weirdo. And it’s all my fault. #nextstopyouporn
And these days feel extra great when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. That’s when I feel really special. I’ll tell ya what, ladies. I bounced right back (kinda) after one kid. A little breastfeeding and some mascara and I was presentable. Rocky fucked me. And it was actually a tease, because I kinda bounced back while breastfeeding him too. And then I stopped because he was attempting to bite my nipple off. After that it was like all the M&Ms and Deep Eddie (if you don’t know, you need to) hit me all at once. I no longer have the energy to workout or the willpower to turn down dessert or cocktails, so here we are. What the hell will I feel and look like after three?! And today I decided that while I used to hop out of bed and run to target, I now should probably throw even a little bit of makeup on every day, just to feel non-dead. I look at those Instagram accounts of people like Kristin Cavallari and I am like—now why can’t I get my shit together like that?! And then I remember that I am fucking “Big Samm” and I don’t have a personal chef, personal trainer, or personal stylist. It’s just me, my boys, my Nutella, and my lack of motivation. But whatever, no mom of toddlers feels pretty, right? See now we took a weird turn into self esteem land and you are probably like, ehhh—you should really talk to your therapist about this shit, and don’t worry, I do. I’m just saying, at this stage in life, I find it extremely hard to feel good about myself, in every sense. So send me a fucking fruit basket or something, would ya?!!
And where the hell is Britt, huh? She's funnier.