Because my son is driving me insane and my eyeballs might actually explode from repressing the inner screams if I don’t vent SOMEwhere, I am pleased to present A Day In The Life.
Kids come get into bed with me to snuggle. This turns into a discussion wherein Little notices her hair is getting darker. I said that my hair was lighter when I was a little girl and hers might eventually darken too. Her response was giant crocodile tears spilling down her cheeks while she wailed, “but I want to stay beautiful!”
I was like, “so if your hair turns dark like mine, you will not be beautiful anymore?” and she says, wrinkling her nose, “your hair is just so BROWN.” and I go, “like poop, you mean? I HAVE POOP HAIR, LITTLE, IS THAT WHAT YOU ARE SAYING?” which I can barely get out because I am laughing so hard because I am an eleven year old boy.
She, naturally, continues crying and trying to tell me that I AM beautiful, but not in the same WAY because of my unfortunately colored hair. Apparently, my poop-colored hair is only redeemed by all the shiny silver hairs. This goes on for a long time, with me dragging her brother into it and asking Little if Big is also hideous like me, and her continual assertions that I am cute, just not in the best way possible. I am practically convulsing at this point.
She is patting my hair and sifting through it to find the less offensive silver hairs, when she then goes, “your hair IS pretty mommy, except right there where there isn’t any.” Which is suddenly less funny because now I not only have BROWN hair, it is also patchy and balding. I start groping my own head looking for this bald spot and protesting that I probably just slept on it funny and making mental notes to ask Jim if there really IS a bald spot. I thought Big was going to pee himself from laughing. Eventually she decides that my hair isn’t poopy, it’s just boring.
Obviously, I dish out some reminders that what makes a person beautiful is what’s on the inside and being kind is more important than being pretty and blah-blah-blah. I’m thinking those of us with patchy bald poo hair start out behind, though.
I decide that it’s time to quit this nonsense, and we should get up and do something productive. The kids fling themselves against the door at this announcement and tell me that we are going to stay in bed all day and they won’t let me out. I change the sheets and tidy up while they concoct elaborate plans to keep me from escaping. Eventually they both make the mistake of leaving and I promptly lock the door.
I pass notes under the door while they tried to pick the lock.
I decide that we need to get with it, so I call Big down to do schoolwork. I make a stack of everything he can do independently and tell him to make it happen. He alternates between complaining that Little isn’t going first and saying he wants to stay with me and work on my desk, thus making it impossible for me to work with Little at the same time. **eyeroll**
11:00 am – 11:30 am
I nag him to stop staring into space, stop tearing tiny bits off the edges of the papers, stop scribbling on everything and GET TO WORK FOR THE LOVE.
I tell him I won’t be making lunch until his work is done. (so mean!)
He sort of starts working, but mostly seems to be developing a code that I will have to translate before I can check his work. I threaten to print out the page again for him to do-over if I see so much as a hint of anything code-like on the page.
He enthusiastically extols the virtues of his math code and studiously writes it all down on scratch paper to save for his sister to use in two years. I make lunch for Little.
Big starts singing a theme song for his code, and asks me to vote on which variation I like best. I laugh, and wonder if I am going mad.
Little’s lunch (leftover pizza) smells so good, it spurs him to get his stupid page done. I make his lunch. I write this story and yell at people to CHEW WITH THEIR MOUTHS CLOSED OR GO OUTSIDE. (I said I was mean. Keep up.)
I get them settled with their kindles and take a shower. Nothing says classy like finally putting on a bra in the middle of the afternoon.
Go grocery shopping. Leave all kids behind, where they are their dad’s problem. Cackle evilly in my head and remember that Safeway has a Starbucks in it. Probably it’s a sign.
Home from the store and wondering if I can possibly get out of cooking dinner.
Feel happy tomorrow is knitting day.