Monday tipped me over and poured me out, you guys.
After my husband made dinner I volunteered to put together tomorrow's lunches, do the dishes and drywall the basement (we don't have a basement) so as not to have to give baths to the small loud people licking energy pellets directly from my brain.
You see, lately something feral is going on with our daughter when the sun goes down. Abby's pterodactyl scream is so piercing all we can do is clutch our temples and cry, "My ears!" as she demonstrates new heights in an octave made for bats and maybe secret spy planes.
Grayson's evidently getting paid in gummy worms to help her make that horrible sound.
By 7 o'clock I just want to climb into my iPad and roll around in Blogland. Did you know there is a never ending offering of great reads available for our viewing pleasure? I could read you people for hours. And today, I totally tried.
After The Hubs so kindly finished up with baths there was no way I could remain happily bobbing around in the massage chair (so good) downstairs. But man was I not in it to win it. Momma could not rally. Which is exactly what the small loud people feed off of when they smell weakness.
H-e-e-y, you guys are already in your jammies, this'll be quick! I can do this. I can do this!
OOOOoooh, my children pounce, What is that smell? Is that the perfume of Mom's weak resolve and tired decision making faculties?
"Soooo Mommy, can you love on me before you rock me to seep?" Abby sings which is really a request to snuggle her for point 3 seconds before she body checks me in the face or becomes enamored with mastering a zipper on my jacket that will take approximately 12,000 hours and thirty-nine minutes.
"Let's pick out your clothes for tomorrow!" I pull out a quick play toward distraction.
"Um, dis one is good," she says pointing to a Christmas turtleneck. In May. Someone is very good at this game.
"Hmm...How about this one?" I suggest holding up a more seasonable selection.
"No. No. No. No. No NO NO NO no no no...." Abby loses herself in the beauty of No until my forehead splinters off in a war of fiberglass and impatience.
"Ok," I snap, "Let's just do this tomorrow. No rocking tonight. Go to bed. Can you climb into bed, Honey? Go ahead, Baby, just get in the bed, Mommy tuck you in. Get in zee bed, Bebe. GetinzeebedGetinzeebed, Mommy will tuck you in now....d'accord????? Don't cry, Bebe, suck it up. Suck it up now, Honey. Time for bed!"
Whoa. Hello Freakshow. As if it was less scary to add a little Franglais? Was there really any other choice but for her to cry? Suck it up? Really? Dear Abby buries her crumpled little face in her pillow so I can't see her weep.
I am barely two inches tall.
"Oh no, Baby. Don't cry. It's not you, Honey, it's me. Mommy is just tired, I'm so sorry" I whisper to an exhausted girl who just wanted her Mommy to show up. I kneel down to kiss her on the forehead and feel something rubbing on the back of my leg. It appears she who admits she is a world class jerk is no longer alpha of her domain. Tillie, our new black lab, had been attempting to mount me during my apology to tiny sad 3 year-old, therefore taking household matters into her own hands.
Who can blame her. Tonight I believe she could've done the better job. Perhaps she won't mind unloading the dishwasher.