|I am SO mean I deserved an X across my face.|
Yes. Of course I did.
*I do not know why I'm the keeper of all the things. Only one day someone just said "where is my..." and I happened to be present and I just said "oh, it's..." and then suddenly because I sometimes go by the name of Mom, I am Keeper of All The Things Ever. (I'd like to know what happened to all the people that go by the name of Resident of This House/Owner/User of the Things.)
I got my eyes dilated at the eye doctor yesterday*, and today I still look like I'm high on something other than life. And yet. Not even this intimidates my children into not being feral.
|Shut up. This is the very definition of tragic. Those eyebrows.|
I CAN'T EVEN SEE WELL ENOUGH TO PUT MAKEUP ON. Deal.
*All this, and I'm still not a good candidate for Lasik surgery? What the what? Are you disappointed, the eye doctor wanted to know. Well. Since both my kids got braces last week, and now I'm going to have to teach 58 barre classes a week to pay the credit card bill, it would seem that in a bizarre turn of events, my Lasik surgery is actually in my children's mouths. So since I probably couldn't have paid for it anyway, no. I guess I'm not all that disappointed. There is nothing like realizing your body is turning on you and there is nothing you can do about it. AND also I continue into my adulthood to want to spell dilated diAlated because this is how I say it. DiAlated. Like it has this extra syllable. This is what is wrong with teaching phonics, folks.
I have been reduced to labeling food in our house. As soon as I get home from the grocery store, that corrupt place of obscene prices, I am forced to get out the Sharpie and label various food items. We don't like to share or care for other's needs in this house. It's me for me or you'll regret it. Yogurt, apparently, is a big deal. So are granola bars. In fact, they are such a big deal that others in the family have been accused of "taking" and "stealing" them. I am a labeler and therefore enjoy labeling said food. That way there is a place for everything, and everything has it's place, and no one has to wonder "who's yogurt/granola bar/cracker pack/cheese is this?" No more. We have a system now.
Also. The appliances in this house that belong to me do not like me and are staging a coup. My refrigerator, who is three and going through extreme fussiness, stopped making ice and then decided to overflow it's drain and spill water all into my floor. When the appliance repair man came, who 1) was able to make an actual appointment and b) actually showed up, he asked me to completely defrost my refrigerator. This requires moving all your food that you care about elsewhere while the ice in your fridge slowly melts and starts to smell funny, even after you brave cleaning it out with bleach. All of the refrigerated food was moved downstairs to an extra fridge. All the freezer food was moved to the garage. For some reason unknown to me, going to the garage is acceptable but going downstairs is not. Jack asked me to fix his dinner for him last night (flatbread pizza), but could not understand why I would ever ask him to go downstairs and get the ingredients. (1. Flatbread 2. Sauce 3. Cheese) "Why can't you do it," he wanted to know. Because it's your dinner. "Well then I don't want anything." Fine. "But I'm hungry." Then go get the ingredients. Have you ever been on a merry-go-round that you want very badly to get off of? Welcome to my Tuesday night. He finally got the ingredients, and I made him the pizza. He took one look and deemed it too "saucy" and therefore completely uneatable. TAKE A BITE. (That was me.) And he did. One bite. From the edge of the Too Saucy Flatbread Pizza. "I can't eat this, you put waaaaaaay too much sauce on it, MOM." He has taken to mumbling under his breath about All The Things That Tick Him Off, including Saucy Pizza, and I may have heard the words "gross" and "stupid" (of course, maybe stupid was from this morning when I made him change out of his dirty shirt and into a clean one, because I think all the ones in the drawer were, according to him, STUPID. I'm getting my altercations mixed up.) and so when I hear him mumbling I'll go I CAN HEAR YOU and then he just whispers and I'll go I CAN HEAR YOU and this makes him verra, verra mad and then he won't talk to me.
Does constantly wondering if one is a bad parent really make one a good parent-in-the-making? This logic, while flawed, might actually be of some use to me as I stumble through this tumultuous time called The Cataclysmic Days of Our Lives.
While I'm sitting here typing, my phone is ringing madly, letting me know that a lawsuit has been brought against me in COURT OF LAW and I need to call this 713 number to find out more information. And I laughed (and blocked the number because that is A. Noy. Ying.) and thought maybe it's my children, those beings I birthed and brought into the world and wiped their bottoms and kissed their boo-boos and picked up and dropped off, who threw up on me and spit up on me and now throw up words on me--maybe it's my children suing me for not being a very good Keeper of All the Things, for being an absolutely atrocious flatbread pizza maker, for making them get braces and then paying for them, and for making their lives all-around terrible lives to live.
If you're wondering if you're a bad parent, then maybe, just maybe, you might be doing something right.