I swear I did a post referring to an old 80's TV commercial for a product called Calgon. It was a bath product that would soothe your troubles away once you poured it into your tub and let the water do its work. The commercial always had some super-stressed out woman who got a run in her pantyhose, dumped coffee on her sexist boss' lap, got a flat tire on the way home from work, and then broke one of her manicured red 2-inch nails and was compelled to exclaim, "Calgon, take me AWAY!!!!" If only a bubble bath would take away my troubles instead of give me a raging bladder infection and two kids pounding on the door for me to unlock it. As I type my kids are beating the shit out of each other in Sophie's bed. Lord, please give me the strength to NOT go up there and bang their heads together like two coconuts. THIS is a moment for Xanax..........
Currently Sultan is playing Grand Theft Auto. That is fine. I wish I had some escape from their mother fucking incessant screaming, bickering, bitching, and whining. Problem is, they always know how to find me. I do not even know how some people do it with more than two kids. Truly, I am in awe of anyone out there who has 3 plus kids, especially if they are girls. God damn. I sometimes feel bad for being at the absolute end of my rope but I can't help it. Isabella began the evening with a spectacular temper tantrum/crying jag that lasted for 40 minutes. We went to the elementary school to see Sophie in the 2nd grade musical. The gymnasium served as the auditorium this year with folding chairs. Without graduated seating, if you weren't in the first two rows you couldn't see shit. Isabella took one look at our seats, a shameful FIVE rows back, and threw a hissy.
"IIIIIIIIIIIIII CCAAAAAAAAAAN'T SSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
No fucking shit, we already got here an hour and a half early. Give me a damn break. Oh, but little Public Outburst Devil Child had already SEEN the show at an assembly at school during the day. Screaming, hyperventilating, and crying ensued for way too damn long. I seriously wanted to chuck her in the gym storage room with all the kickballs and scooters, locking the door and maybe scaring her into submission. That shit NEVER works with her. (Not locking her in rooms, you freaks who have DCFS on speed dial, just punishing her into realizing she should be good to get her way.) It had to be about 85 degrees in there--I was pitting out worse than Bill Clinton at a sex addicts recovery meeting. We barely saw Sophie do her seahorse part thanks to all the NBA-tall dads who held their orangutan arms up with video cameras for 30 minutes. Princess Satanica got to sit on the floor in front to see the whole damn show, for a second time, and with the cool breeze of the open gym doors blowing on her. I joked with Sophie's teacher, who is the cutest damn thing and is getting married this summer, "Wait a LONG time before you have babies. Please, for the love of God, enjoy that freedom before kids suck it all up!" She giggled and told me I was silly. Har-dee-har-har. Children are a barrel of laughs, aren't they?
But no, my night gets even BETTER. As you know I have like 85 pets in this hizzle. Okay, I really only have two cats, one guinea pig, and a dog, but it FEELS like 85 animals with all the bodily functions they excrete every damn place I turn. Princess Leah is a nervous little scrawny cat. She inhales her food so fast, without chewing, and then yacks it all up whole about every third time she eats. She also enjoys eating price tags, organdy ribbon, and string. She leaves a potpourri of vomit trails with this shit in it. Issey is a total fag diva. He licks himself 8 hours a day. He sleeps for about 10 hours a day. He fucks with us at night about 4 hours a day, pawing my head or tits till I yell at him. And he vomits hairballs about 2 hours per day. Pierre needs a Crane's hand-engraved invitation to take a piss in the grass in our backyard. Seriously, I have to coax him to "Go potty, Pierre!" about 20 times before he'll do it. And if I leave the screen door open, he runs back in, bladder full, expecting a treat. Like I DON'T fucking know he's about to piss on my floor. I came home, stepped OVER Leah's puked-up dinner, stepped into Issey's third hairball the size of a small rat (complete with it's own special hairy bile), and then again into two squishy turds Pierre deposited by the God damn door in m laundry room. Are all of you fucking animals banding together, eating massive quantities of whatever makes you shit and puke to make my life HELL?! Because I really, really hate cleaning up this bullshit. I purposely avoid this shit bomb routine every month by taking my birth control to prevent me from having any more babies. If I had to change another diaper of a child of mine I would be committed.
I will hopefully arise from bed tomorrow refreshed, renewed, and ready to start another lovely day as a mother to my daughters. Every day it's a crap shoot as to how it will turn out. Moods and drama can turn on a dime. I know this because like I said, I have two daughters. And I thought the drama would be postponed till at least 13, not 8 years-old. I pray my cats will be able to digest all they consume and that Pierre will decide it is purely kickass to shit in the grass and NOT piss on my carpet. Chances are, not all will go my way and I'll settle for a handful of endorphins from spin class. Because if I roll the dice on the crap shoot that is my life, chances are I will step in a big pile of dookie.
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