Tuesday, December 8, 2009

It's 8:03 am and I Need an Adult Beverage

It is 8:03 a.m., and it has not been a good morning. I am exhausted. I am unpleasant. I am very close to coming to unhinged. And I am being provoked. Where to begin. Or more precisely... With whom?

To Captain Coupon. Let's start with you. I know that you just love to mess with me. Making me mad is a delightful sport to you. But here's a hint; when your baby wakes up every 45 minutes all night long because she is teething and you do NOTHING expect snore and roll over, it is inadvisable to wake up at 6:30am and stomp around our bedroom bemoaning the fact that your dress shirt has wrinkles. And fuss about "where are my cuff links?" I have no idea. Where are my black pearl earrings? You don't hear me asking you to keep track of my random crap. Also, it is a very bad idea to use a tone with your wife about said dress shirt and then coo to the baby: "Did my sweet girl have a rough night? Daddy's here, it's all ok." Really? Is it all ok? Because for your sake, I hope the gun is unloaded. And if your judgment is bad enough that you ask me to make you breakfast, I will stab you with a fork.

To six-year old daughter. You are next. Why are you crying? You cannot be possibly be crying for the reason you claim. I am the meanest mommy on the earth? Seriously? You are six. So am I horrible because I refuse to dress the entire family in black pants and white shirts. And then have us all walk you to school. So that everyone in the neighborhood and at school can see us dressed alike. So that (direct quote): "They will see us and know we are a family and that we are really professional people". To what profession were you referring? Catering? I will not dress the entire family in matching outfits. We are not Von Trapps. Or Osmonds. We are also not crazy. I will not do it for family photographs, and I will certainly not do it on a Tuesday morning. I'm sorry that you are crying. You are very cute and I love you, but if you ask me one more time to change my clothes, I am locking you in the closet.

Back to Captain Coupon: No. I am not changing into a white shirt and I am not being mean to her. Please stop moving your mouth hole before my inner New Jersey takes over (like the Hulk does to Bruce Banner). I am no longer responsible for my actions.

To four-year old son: I heard you the first fifteen times you asked me to wipe your bottom. I am pretty sure you already know that we keep extra toilet paper and toddler wipes under the sink so I see NO REASON why you chose to wipe your keister with my shower curtain. And yes, you do have to wash your hands. Oh, I see. There is no poop on your hands because you didn't use your hands to wipe. You used the shower curtain. Therefore you do not have to wash your hands. That is very interesting logic, my son. Ahem. WASH. THEM. RIGHT. NOW. And you will use soap or I will bathe you in the front yard with a hose.

Back again to Captain Coupon: Stop laughing this minute and go to work. I mean it. Wait, did you seriously change your suit so that she would stop crying? Do you have any idea what you have done? You look like you need a wine list.

To the baby: I love you. You're the only one in the whole house who is currently good. And I know your mouth hurts. But why? Why do you hate me? Why do you bite me while you are nursing? I don't want to scream like that, but you see, it's involuntary. Because you are biting my nipple and it hurts like a bastard. Also, could you please try sleeping? For more than an hour? At night, I mean? Pretty please?

I hear a small voice that sounds eerily like my own. It says: "I should not have to ask you ten times to get dressed. Please. Get. Dressed. Or. We. Will. Be. Late." It is my daughter. I think she is talking to her brother.


To the dog: You. Do you know that your little squirrel chasing dream last night woke up the baby the one time she was actually sleeping? Was it necessary for you to howl? Really? Wake up that baby ONE MORE TIME and you're sleeping in the basement. Also, I get it. The floor next to my side of the bed is your happy place. I understand that this is a great honor. But do NOT pilfer disgusting items from the trash can and then take them to your special place where I step on them in the dark. I do not enjoy wiping wet Ritz crackers (or "reprocessed" Kleenex) off my feet at 4am. I am talking to a dog.

Silence. I look up. They are all there, staring at me. They are all wearing black pants and white shirts. Oh no. The Blur is obscuring my vision. The Cap'n is holding out a white sweater. "Put it on. It's time to walk to school." He is trying not to laugh. Its over. The battle is lost, and the little terror suspects have won again. I lack the strength to fight so I put on the sweater. We are a family of professional caterers and we are now walking to school.

Fantastic.

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