Monkey Poo Flinging Day

Holy freakin’  moly.  It’s a “I need want to pop a Xanax and wash it down with a triple shot of Patron margarita” day.  Ha.  If only.  Right?  If only death wasn’t the result.

What the hell is going on today?  Everyone is driving me insane!  Everyone.  Literally.

The baby won’t stop crying.  She’s sitting in my lap as I’m typing, because if I put her down, the flood gates open.  She’s only happy in my lap.  Other than that, all hell breaks loose.

Boy got off the bus being in a mood.  This has been a great, fun afternoon with him.  Let me tell you what.  He decided in order for his homework to be done, he needed to sharpen his pencil in our automatic pencil sharpener.  So he sticks the pencil in, lets it twirl around and around, and he dances all around the office while this is happening.  Meanwhile, the pencil is not being sharpened, just twirling around and around, and is making that horrific grinding sound.  You know, the one you can just feel down to your bone?  Yeah, that one.  It goes on and on for about ten minutes straight.  I finally decide to walk in there and see what is going on and try to navigate him out of there and back towards his homework.  Only, I get to the office a second too late.  Baby Girl got there first.  And of course, Boy didn’t like that.  He slammed her hand in the office door.  Nice big brother, right?  Just what I was thinking.  So that set off the wailing sirens again.  Fun times, I’ll tell ya!

After I finally get him settled back into his seat and start to work on homework, he then pulls out his portraits from his backpack from their spring pictures they had taken at school and received today to bring home.  Big Girl tries to look at his, and he looses all control.  He looks like a gorilla with big swinging arms trying to collect them all before she can sneak a peek at the face she sees everyday.  Big ol’ Donkey Kong making grunting noises, trying to prevent his sister from seeing a picture of his mug, which turns into another fight.  I   They start batting and swinging a little, hit and miss, pencils in hand.  I may as well just have monkeys running around flinging poo at each other.  I feel like that’s what is happening anyway.  At least I may have a shot at someone listening.  The monkeys may actually listen better to me than my own children.  There’s a pretty good chance of that, actually.

After the homework battle is finally complete, we move on to the battle of the Baby Girl.  She is just walking around and around crying and crying.  Why you ask?  Why am I not holding her?  Comforting her?  Seeing what is wrong?  Oh believe me, I have.  I’ve done it all.  She’s fed.  She’s been changed.  She’s healthy.  She’s not teething.  She’s 110% happy – as long as she’s in my arms.  She is so spoiled rotten.  She will be crying so hard you’d think she needs to go to the emergency room because she looks like she has a broken bone, and then Mommy picks her up, and she’s giggling so hard and she’s so happy!  What an actress she is.  She has such a brilliant personality at a year-and-a-half old already.  I can’t stand the fact that I have to face this for the next sixteen years or so.  I have a feeling she’ll outwit me a time or two.  This one seems pretty good…I may have met my match…

And that, my friends, is quite the scary thought.

Thankfully, I have a great hubby coming to the rescue.  He’s bringing home dinner.  Yep, we’re cheating tonight.  Cheating together!  With food.  He’s bringing home takeout from one of our favorite places to eat.  Good old Glory Days.

Yum. Sauce.

Holy Muffin Top :(

I need to go on a diet.  Or start working out.

That’s the first time in my life I’ve ever had to say those two sentences.  Ever.

I was always considered blessed that I could eat whatever the hell I wanted, whenever I wanted.  Well, all I have to say is karma is a bitch.  I know someone out there cursed me to get me here.  Someone had to have said, “Man I just hope that skinny bitch eating all that food gets fat one day.”  Or, “Look at that skinny bitch shoving all that food in her mouth – just wait, it’ll catch up to her.”  Or even, “Please make her fat.  Now.”  So to whoever the hell you were – all I have for you is one finger.  And a big ol’ F bomb to drop.

I canNOT get rid of this baby weight.  With the first two kids, immediately afterwards, I was back to normal, wearing size 0 jeans, eating whatever I wanted.  Not exercising to stay skinny, just naturally blessed as a thin girl.  Not anymore.  It’s my turn to bitch and complain about my weight.  I’ve always had to hear about it, but never had to do it myself.  Now, I am.

So the answer is simple, right?  Work out.  Exercise.  Eat better.

Someone tell me how the f to do that, and I’ll do it.  Give me a schedule.  No, better yet.  Hire me a maid.  And a nanny.  And a personal trainer.  And while you’re at it, have someone follow me around with a fan if I’m hot, or a blanket if I’m cold, but of course, only one that has been kept warm for when I need it to be, like at the hospital.  And make sure everything around me is coated in gold.  Or better yet platinum.  Platinum and diamonds.  Yes, that’s what I want.  Platinum, diamonds, nannies (one for morning and night, per kid), maids (one per person while we’re at it and one for the dog), waiters, servers, ooohhh bartenders…yummmmm….personal bartenders.  And a personal doctor.  Not for the help, just for the medications they can prescribe.  A personal bartender and prescriptions whenever I want?!?!  Hell yeah.  That sounds much better…a little margarita here, shot of tequila there, anti-crazy pill washed down with a beer.   Now THAT sounds like fun.

Wait, am I getting off track?   What the hell was I ranting about?  Oh yeah, my muffin top.  My fat ass and huge thighs.  It’s definitely not ok.  It’s gotta go.  But let me ask: when am I supposed to do all this working out?  When I’m running around with a spoiled ass 6-month-old, who can’t be put down, who takes 20 minute naps?  While I’m trying to get my schoolwork done?  During homework time after school while I’m feeding the baby or trying to keep her from screaming at the top of her lungs while Boy says, “I can’t do my homework when she’s screaming like that!  I can’t concentrate!”  While I’m pushing a vacuum around, holding a baby, trying to shoo the dog away from the vacuum…Or when I’m making dinner for 3 kids and trying to be a referee as well?  It’s like I work in an f’ing circus.  I’m a ring leader.  It’s an open animal barn.  Everyone strap on a helmet and hope for the best.  Make sure you don’t step in dog pee or dog piss along the way.  And who knows what you’re eating.  Just close your eyes and shut up.

I’m thinking the best thing for me is diet pills.  Or prayer.  Or just plain dumb luck.  Or maybe the weight Gods will focus on someone else for awhile…