Not my will to live!
This morning I (finally! oh thank god finally!) dropped two of my kids back at pre-school. They don’t technically open until next week, but I figured they both have good playgrounds and aren’t too close to busy traffic so I was okay with it.
Speaking of which, I’m getting really sick of all these “laws” telling me what I can and can’t do to my kids. I can hit them, but I can’t leave them in the car for five minutes while I run into the gas station to buy a bottle of bourbon and some scratchers? Did you ever think that maybe if it were legal to leave your kids in the car we wouldn’t need to hit them? Come on people. It’s simple math.
Anyhoo… where was I? Oh yeah. About to tell you how I almost snuck to the airport in the middle of the night last week to implement “Plan B.”
Don’t get me wrong. I love my kids. But two weeks straight holed up in a house with anyone whose name isn’t Chocolate Cake would drive anyone to the brink of insanity. And, as an added bonus, throw in three snotty noses and the occasional spontaneous puke that comes COMPLETELY without warning and you’ve got yourself some good ole fashioned holiday cheer right there folks.
All four of us did venture outside – once – to play in the snow. It took 35 minutes to outfit everyone in snow pants, coats, hats, mittens and scarves, then two of them had to pee. I pretended like I had gone deaf and pushed them out the door. Of course, because I was holding the baby, all I could do was stand there and slowly freeze while I watched Ellie and Lila frolic around. After we were outside for 15 minutes the baby’s fingers felt like ice cubes because god forbid she keep her mittens on and my right ass cheek was completely numb.
Everyone reluctantly shuffled back inside and the feeling didn’t come back in my butt until half way through Shrek 2. I vowed, as God as my witness, never to try anything so stupid again.
But this morning, for two hours and ten minutes, my salvation came. No Sesame Street. No Play Doh. No sounds of two little girls fighting to the death over a spoon.
It’s all uphill from here.
Until summer. Awful horrible summer. And maybe Plan B.