If you have kids at home, you likely spend a good portion of your day watching TV.
And thus likely spend a good portion of your day feeling like you live in an insane asylum.
The high-pitched voices.
The squeals of laughter. The over-exaggerated disappointment.
“Oh noooo, Alpha-Pig is toooo scared to go down the slide. What arrrrrrrre we going to do?”
Blugh.
And for whatever reason,
I used to be calm. Cool. Collected.
But something happened when I got pregnant, and I lost complete control of my emotions. (And my bladder. But that’s a whole other post.)
Anything sad, sweet or remotely HUMAN – and I become a hubbering, blubbering mess.
I have not watched a single movie since Colt’s birth that hasn’t made me hyperventilate.
I cried at The Hangover.
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Before you go calling Child Protective Services, you should know that I don’t condone swearing.
Ok, that’s not true.
I don’t condone swearing around children.
That’s what my blog is for. And no, I haven’t figured out what I’ll do once Colt is old enough to read this online (which will be like next week.)
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As a child, I don’t remember my parents cursing.
I’m 6 days into the vomit bug from hell and feeling like death is imminent. This is with Zofran, Phenergan and a tanker of Gatorade at my side.
I have a new appreciation for those people in “Love and Cholera.”
All they had was love.
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My son came down with this virus two weeks ago. It was the first time he’d thrown up in his young life,
Ever since we took Colt to Acropolis Greek Taverna, he’s been throwing napkins around.
Yelling Opa! OPA! OPAAAAAA!
We ask him to stop. But he whines saying, “Daddyyyyy, I just wanna Opa! Pweeeease…let me Opa!
So tonight I just gave him a pack of yellow cocktail napkins and let him have at it.
He was in Greek heaven.
Yesterday was my sister’s bridal shower.
I am so thrilled that she found Dan. It’s obvious that he loves her in the same way we do – for her quirky, air-heady, adorable nature.
And as we celebrated the start of her looooooong journey. I started thinking about what makes a good marriage.
Sis, here’s my advice.
1. There will be a day that you wake up and can’t stand your husband.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve posted anything, but it hasn’t been for lack of material!
The most substantial milestone in my life since I last wrote has been potting training Colt (and finding the perfect pair of mustard skinnies at TJ Maxx, but that’s for another blog.)
I knew it was time to look into potty training when Colt was waddling around like he’d just gotten off a horse –
8:00 a.m. Alarm goes off. I roll over.
9:10 a.m. I can hear Colt yelling from his crib ‘Daaaa Daaaa!!”… Am I dreaming? “Daaaa Daaaa…” Todd and I leap out of bed. Ahhhh! Shit!!! We’re going to be late for church AGAIN.
10:05 a.m. We’re late for church. AGAIN.
10:10 a.m. We back away from the church nursery as the babysitter pries Colt off me. We walk toward the sanctuary pretending not to hear the blood curdling screams from down the hall.
It was date night.
The sitter had arrived. I’d flown in from work, changed into my “hot” jeans, spritzed on some body spray, poofed my hair and prepared for lift off.
Without saying goodbye to Colt, Todd and I snuck out of the house. Tiptoeing. Like the cold, heartless parents we are.
Is it selfish to want to avoid the cry fest that ensues when Mommy and Daddy leave?
It was Sunday. Good Christians were exiting Fellowship Halls. Families were sitting down to supper. And heathen-women like me were entering make-shift strip clubs.
A male review disguised as a “movie theater.”
I’m gonna be honest. When my mother-in-law told me we were going to see Magic Mike, my first thought wasn’t about Channing Tatum’s loins.
It was that I could sit. For 2 hours. Without Colt calling my name 20 times a minute.
