Dear Children, You Are So Freaking Lucky To Still Be Alive

My morning started out pretty amazing. I was on the treadmill watching the news. The forecast was calling for a sixty degree day. In February.

I lost three pounds this week and was excited to slip on my sure to be loose jeans. I also purchased a new shirt and purse from Target last night that I was eager to debut. And it’s Friday. Today was going to be amazing.

Then I wake the children. And all holy hell breaks loose.

My one son refuses to get out of bed because he insists it’s Saturday. I gently remind him with the wooden spoon that it is indeed Friday. And he better get his ass out of bed and dressed pronto.

Another son starts dribbling a basketball in his room. I’m able to ignore it for the time being. Because I’m buttering waffles. But of course one child doesn’t want waffles so I have to microwave a pancake on a stick for him.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Mr. It’s Saturday is still on the floor in the fetal position crying about how I got the days wrong. I am losing my damn mind. And worse, my hair is starting to dry. And not the way I want it to.

So I run back to the bathroom to blow out my hair and put my face on. It’s then that I notice someone has clipped their fingernails and left them in the soap dish. I swallow the puke that has suddenly arisen in my mouth.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

I run back to the kitchen to make more waffles. In the toaster. This is when I see my older and should know better daughter eating waffles drowned in syrup with her hands. I let her know way louder than necessary what I think of her choice in utensils.

Get your ass over here.
Get your ass over here.

I can hear the ball bouncing in the background the entire time. I block it out. Choose your battles, Eileen. Choose your freaking battles.

The little one with the days confused is in a full on meltdown. I grab the spoon and give him a little love tap on the bottom to remind him we’re on a tight schedule. He finally gets dressed.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

But he doesn’t have socks. And he has changed his mind. He no longer wants the pancake on a stick. He’d prefer a waffle.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

You think I have the time to whip up another homemade waffle? You’re eating that pancake on a stick that I microwaved just for you and you’ll like it.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

But I want a waffle! So the damn fool that I am makes him the God damn waffle. And he eats it. Without socks.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

So I run downstairs to get dressed. Turns out my jeans are still as tight as ever. And my new size large marge flannel shirt isn’t nearly as adorbs as I envisioned.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

For the love of freaking God stop dribbling that God damn basketball in the God damn house. God dammit!

I finally get them all out the freaking door. And two seconds later they’re all running back inside. For the love of God, now what???

All of the sudden I’m raising four little Warren Buffets. They all need loose change for a collection being taken at school. They put on a good show.

I finally get them all out and then I hop in the car. Something is not right but I can’t concentrate enough to figure out what. I put the car in gear and it just starts rolling out of the driveway.

Turns out the car isn’t even started. When I sent my 8 year-old out to start it, what seems like an eternity ago, she didn’t turn the key all the way. So now I’m cold.

Did I mention Beau left the house before I even got on the treadmill? Bless his freaking heart.


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