Rex, Rocky, Vivi, and Billy                                                                            

Cheers to Me

Cheers to Me

Matt walked in the door at 4:22pm today.  I am very lucky that he gets home so early.  To all you mamas whose husbands are rollin’ in at 7pm, I salute you.  No thank you.  It’s now 4:33pm and I am locked in my bedroom, drink in hand.  And I don’t mean that I poured myself a classy glass of chardonnay.  I hate beer and I don’t really like wine.  Lucky for me (and you), I love vodka.  So here I am, at 4:33pm, drinking grapefruit vodka and fresca out of my “Keep Calm and Be Happy” stemless wine glass.   Whatever okay, I don't do this every day.   It was just one of those days, man.  Just a muthafucker of a day.  Bye, Matt. Going upstairs. Pretend I’m not home.

Before I go on—I know my worst day may be someone else’s best day.  Believe me, I don’t think I have it “bad”, at all. Ever.  I just know that some days, in motherland, I would rather get a pap smear from my dentist than spend one more second with my children (whom I love very dearly).  And today, was one of those days.

I was woken up by all three of my dicks at 7am as they crawled into my bedroom pretending to be lions.  Although I am very grateful that Matt takes the “morning shift” (kids usually wake around 6am), when it’s time for him to shower it feels like a full-on fire drill.  Rex, king of the jungle, is roaring loudly two inches away from my face and Rocky is dropped on top of me before I have even opened my eyes.  So, hi Mufasa and crazy gap-toothed baby.  Good morning to you, too. Perfect.

I get the boys dressed (all three) and Matt leaves for work.  I’m outnumbered. Game on, fuckers.  Whatchu mofo’s got planned for me today? I’m ready for it.  No way. I’m not.  I head downstairs, Rocky on hip and Rex on my back.  I get to the bottom of the stairs and round the corner in to the kitchen.  Then—I see it.  Ohhhh, no he didn’t.  The sink is FILLED with dishes.  What the whaaaa?  There were like two sippy cups in there when I went to bed.  Oh, well good for you, Matty.  In the one  hour that you were awake without me this morning looks like you made yourself a nice continental breakfast.  Two sauté pans, a protein shake thermos thingy, two plates, and some cups.  Dude, did you have breakfast friends over?  I mean c’mon.  Can’t you just toast a damn bagel and throw it on a paper towel like the rest of the male population?  No, of course not.  Crack some eggs and make a shake, bro!  FUCK.  Fine.  Whatever.  Oh, wait—dishwasher is full of clean dishes that need to be out away before I can load in this mornings’ 173 dishes? Perfection.  So I start unloading the clean dishes.  I swear my back was turned for only 40 second, tops, as I put the plates away.  I bend back down to unload the rest and there he is.  Rocky, my maniac, had crawled on top of the dishwasher door and into the dishwasher.  I mean, get a life, bro.  I don’t have time for this.

The day goes on and the fun continues.  Some of the highlights would be finding Rocky in the bathroom elbow deep in the toilet, having him gnaw on the side of a cardboard box three thousand times, and having him projectile vomit all over my new sweater, twice, as he choked on a large pillow feather.  Rex also had some award winning moments, including but not limited to—chewing up an entire thin mint cookie and spitting it onto the rug because he “didn’t feel like eating anymore”, running in circles around the house with his “sirens on” loudly for at least 10 minutes every hour, and showing me his “new (old) trick”—where he dips his ass down to touch the toilet water post dump.

So, here I am.  Rocky is now en route to sleeptown and Rex has joined me in bed.  Even though it is king sized he is choosing to lay basically on top of me.  His legs are crossed and he is watching Daniel Tiger on his ipad.  He seems happy and probably feels great about our day.  He likely doesn’t know how tired I am and that I came really close to losing my shit multiple times.  He doesn’t even know I’m buzzed.   Thank God.  It’s the one benefit of his two year old bipolar attention span.  He will finish his show, I will sniff his feet, kiss him a hundred times, tell him a couple truck stories and call it a day. 

So, cheers to me and all the other moms out there who are sometimes driven to drink at 4:33pm on a Tuesday by craziness that is sure to repeat itself the next day.  We got this.

 

Bribery Backfire

Bribery Backfire

How I Deal with 5pm

How I Deal with 5pm