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ALL CAPS and Overdramatization!!! Wheeeeee!!!
Ok. I gotta warn you. I am going to do something on Momsie I’ve never done before.
I’m going to blame it all on Star Wars.
I have to. It’s the only way.
Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start.
1. Ran three miles. Ok, two and a quarter and then kinda lurched the rest, but I’ll call if running if you will? Ok? We good on that? Ok.
2. Then, I made breakfast for two kids and actually managed to CLEAN UP THE KITCHEN BEFORE WE LEFT THE HOUSE.
3. And do you know what we did when we left the house.? I put TWO MORE children in my car (they are friends. I didn’t just grab random children, ok?) and we all went BOWLING.
4. And THEN we went and had a very healthy lunch at McDonalds. I sat on the other side of the glass and watched them run around like little rats in ratty Thunderdome. I ate my salad and contemplated my life choices, but you know.
5. And THEN: I decided to take them all shopping for back to school stuff. Well, I just bought stuff for my actual children, but you know.
Backpacks and shoes. So, now that our college fund is totally depleted, I bring them all home and make them snacks (healthy! I promise!) and by heavens I DESERVE A FLIPPING PARADE OK?
Where is my parade? Where? Maybe just a small one? Couple Shriners? One politician in a car much cooler than he is? PLEASE?
Nope. What happened instead:
There seemed to be a problem with one of the backpacks. And by “problem” I mean:
R2-D2 STOPPED WORKING. (“MOM. He’s upposed to light UP and blink at me! He is JUST LIGHTING UP. DER IS NO BLINKING. WHERE ID DA BLINKINNNNNNNGG?” And then he just looked at me as if I could just WAVE my hands over the thing and WAZAAM the blinking back in the backpack. Say that fast three times. And, by the way, I so wish that was wazamm thing was a thing. Moms could use that thing, sometimes. But I guess that would make me Harry Potter, and it is kinda tricky, that. I mean, I liked the books and all but not sure Jesus would truck with me becoming a wizard. Anyhow. I’m kinda swerving on this, right?
Right. Anyhow. Back to R2.
Let me also explain that BOTH boys brought home the SAME backpack. And now ONE is not working. And, as you know, that means that ONE kid is now really REALLY Def Con 5 UPSET. The other one is smirking. And then you know that thing that you do, you moms? Where you try to comfort and pat one AND glare at the other one? Well. This maneuver is complex and I MIGHT have fumbled the ball a bit.
I had figured to just do what Solomon did. Just cut the other one in half and it’s all good. I mean, it’s just STARING at me.
Is it just me, or??
I dunno. Maybe it’s just me.
Anyhow, I settled the backpack issue. Don’t ask. It might have involved the negotiation skills of Atticus Finch. And also a Nutter Butter. But you know.
And THEN, the husband got home from an after-work-go-have-a-beer-with-the-colleagues thing (he’s a total normie and for that I am so grateful and he really did probably have at most a BEER or TWO like he said) but holy Corona, he leaned in to kiss me and I smelled it. Alcohol. And my eyes narrowed to tiny snakey slits of anger and judgement and I swear we both heard a rattle. Because I CAN judge at this point. Do you know WHY?
Do ya? Do you know WHY I CAN JUDGE NOW?
Because it’s past five o’clock and it’s been a DAY and I NEVER GOT THAT PARADE.
Also, I made tuna and stirfry for dinner because my children wanted to act like I was feeding them plague food again tonight.
So, the husband tells me, after a nice, healthy dinner paired with a side serving of snake, and a lottttt of soy sauce,
“Dear. I love you.”
And I responded with:
“That’s because you HAVE to. You’re MARRIED to me. That’s, right, Drinkie McDrinkerson. You are STUCK. WITH. ME.” (rattle, rattle)
AND then. As he slowly trudged up the stairs he called down, “Yes. I am. And I am blessed.”
“YES YOU ARE MR. DRINKY-PANTS. YOU ARE SO BLESSED.”
Like I said. This behavior was all R2-D2’s fault. Perhaps, if we had gotten the Captain America backpacks like I had SUGGESTED NONE of this would have EVER happened.
AND WEAR MY BACKPACK. MINE. NOT THE ROBOT ONE.