("Move the thing! And. . . that other thing!")
I do this every so often-- you know, the Mommy Meltdown thing I do. Is it, like, quarterly that I have a freakout? Let's say quarterly.
I've gone cuckoo kachoo. But before you judge me,
please know that I am the nicest mom, ever. 'Cept I'm not. But I am. Sorta. I can be really nice. I am nice. Until you cross me. It's all roses and lollipops, until Thing 3 whines that he needs "a glass of meee-wk" for the eight thousandth time.
And then it's suddenly, "How would you like a nice warm glass of shut the heck up?"
And then everyone's like, "Ruh-roh-- mom's gone crazy again."
I don't know what brings this on. Oh wait, yes I do. I'm sure the back ache from all that manual labor the last few days has something to do with it. It's about all that bum wiping, or perhaps I've made one too many boxes of macaroni and cheese and then snapped.
And it certainly has something to do with the hubs having worked an insane amount of hours this entire summer and I'm on like week 8 of: haven't left the house, talked to an adult about once a week/who are all these kids in my house? I'm pretty sure I only birthed 4 but I'm counting 10 and why is there a trail of toilet paper down the hall, da$#it!.
And, you know, this has nothing to do with it. I hate two year olds.
(The quality of this shot matches the quality of my mood. Crappy.)
And then suddenly, people are coming to tell you that they caught your seven year old trying to dip his freaking cotton candy in the chocolate fountain at Golden Corral, for crying out loud.
And then you realize, that although laundry's going in the washer and out of the dryer, that nothing's actually getting put away. And that's why the boys are wearing a jammie top with a pair of mismatched striped shorts.
And before you know it, bam-- you've locked yourself in the bathroom, and you're sitting on the can watching Netflix on the iPad on your lap. ("Somebody's in here!")
Happens to everyone from time to time.
So why am I sharing this? Oh, ya know. I find it cleansing. Helps me move on. 'N stop waving my gun in the air. Swing the battle axe over my head, and so forth.
I promised not to show this picture outside of the family.
My bad. (Shhhh. He called himself "Weirdo Crazy Super Hero").
Man, I'm feeling better, already. Thanks for listening. Let's go make some cookies, kids. Maybe we'll even bake some of the dough.