The old “but it’s a good tired,” is here.
This is like telling someone in Hell that it’s a dry heat.
I am so tired I am typing this through sheer will and a last spurt of final dying breath to get the word out to you, my readers, that I love you, and it’s been good and all, but holy hot sauce, this Momsie is no more. I have ceased to be. I’m expired, late, stiff… bereft of life. THIS IS an EX-Momsie.
If this were a Disney movie, we are all at the last twenty minutes of Old Yeller.
Or. I’m the mom in Bambi. Or Cinderella. Or that fish movie where the mom bites it right at the beginning and my children freak out and never let me watch any more of it, even though I try to talk them into it with, “It’s a Disney movie, y’all. It’s gonna end happily, I promise!” because I think it’s funny. And they’re all looking up phone numbers for local therapists because the MOM DIED in the movie, how in the world does a happy ending blossom out of that?
Yep. I’m that mom.
Well, wait, that’s confusing. Am I the dead fish mom, or the one who wants my kids to watch the dead fish mom, you know, because it’s funny? Well, both, of course.
I’m so tired the thought of making dinner tonight made me sob a little. I considered microwaving some hot dogs but oh good gravy that means ketchup and I just can’t. I can’t.
Please don’t make me get the ketchup out of the fridge. It will be the end of me, and I mean it.
And also, I have to now look up the spelling: ketchup. Or catsup?
Oh, I can’t even go on.
I’m so tired. My son just spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, came out, all nonchalant with his underpants in his hand, and then proceeded to plonk his tiny white Hazmat-situation bum all over my oriental rug in the living room, and all I did was flutter a hand at him and then I looked away. “The horror…” I whispered. But, did I get up, grab my Lysol, and start squeegeeing him? No.
I’m just so tired.
I’m so tired I don’t even think I can write this. I have to put two boys to bed and I am not. I am so not. They’re on their own.
“Kids,” I say weakly, “Go on up. Put on jammies. Get in bed. Go to sleep. We’ll meet again, soon. Until then,” I flutter my finger at them and croak, “I’ll be right here.” I aim for my heart but there’s still some ice cream on my shirt as I look down, so I instead swipe it off and lick, which makes Blonde suspicious:
“You’ll be where? On your shirt? And… And what’s that? What IS that?” he starts to approach, his nose all quivering like an ice cream detecting drug dog. Red, always able to hone in on dairy, also starts my way. Steve the cat, a pathetic follower, well, follows.
This is it. This is the end. My children and the cat are now slowly approaching me because I smell like butter pecan and some chocolate jimmies, and they’re gonna eat me. It’s the Walking Dead. With sprinkles.
I am just so very, very tired.
Too tired to write this.
This post was sponsored by: too many pop references to count.