When you make the choice (or are forced.. or bribed.. ) into stay at home parenthood, you learn quickly that the only way to survive is to become acutely aware of all of your child/ren’s actions (and by actions I mean evil deeds) BEFORE they commit them.
|it’s a good thing I don’t
have a desk job
Yeah, yeah, spontaneity keeps you young and all that shit, but a spontaneous child usually means black crayon decorating your nice white walls or keys plopping into a toilet full of stale pee (because SOMEONE hasn’t learned the concept of flushing). I was never a ‘routine’ kind of a girl, mostly because I hate organization and partially because i’m just too damn lazy to ever schedule things around other things (that’s just too many THINGS to keep track of)- but once I popped Holden out I realized that routine would be my SAVIOR. My night in shining armor and all that fairytale crap you’re spoon fed as a child. Routine is that for me.
I like to know what is going to happen and when. How they’re going to act and why. And of course you can’t predict sickness or seriously random bouts of asshattery, but the longer you’re around your lil’ vaginal creations- the more you can see that shit coming from a mile away.
Hey, kid, you’re acting like a total asshole- THAT’S because you’re tired, so why don’t you take your whiny ass upstairs and get to napping?
You also learn after time that the above statement never goes down that way.
Stumbling through this journey we like to refer to as ‘parenthood’- there are a few facts that are very clear.
1. children are assholes
2. children are awesome
3. children are assholes
4. There are certain times of the day, WITHOUT FAIL, where you will swear up and down, maybe even do a Linda Blair full 360 head spin that they are TRYING to make you lose your fucking mind.
These times of day have come to be known as “The Witching Hours”- because there is no other terminology strong enough to describe just how terrible they are without stringing together multiple expletives and speaking in tongues.
These Witching Hours tend to occur when we are either trying to get some important shit done, or wind things the hell down. Subconscious need to throw a wrench into plans? Trying to keep us on our toes? Just plain old fashioned mean?
Around these parts (and by these parts I mean my house, as if I know my neighbors?), the worst Witching Hours come right around dinner time. More specifically, the 30 minutes before Thomas walks in through the door right up until dinner is ready and on the table.
We are talking my kids (who have no lack of energy to begin with) turning from normal into balls to the wall, total deathmatch, batshit fucking crazy psychopathic monsters; And I never know which end of the spectrum it’s going to go each day. Either they’ll be screaming with glee running continual circles through the kitchen and living room making it impossible for me to cook because I have to make sure they don’t take some stupid fucking plush horse head on a stick and beat the dog with it, or if it’s going to be complete and total meltdowns, making it impossible for me to cook because I have to seriously begin to consider sending them both to the damn nutfarm where they can wear those lovely white coats with the straps and buckles.
It doesn’t matter the level of crackheaded bullshit programming I stick on the boob tube (ahem.. Spongebob)- NOTHING stops them. They will always find a way to turn those hours into a fight, a screaming match, or just something so obnoxious that I can feel my fingernails peeling back with frustration. This leads to a lot of shitty dinners, not that I care what anyone else thinks but me- I want to eat GOOD food, damnit- not “get the fuck out from under my feet, stop hitting your brother, don’t torment the dog, fuck I dropped this piece of chicken on the floor oh well back in it goes, damn we don’t have enough of this OR of that and I didn’t notice until it was too late because I was too busy putting up with your relentless shit so i’m just gonna wing it, this isn’t even what I want nor does it smell edible but we have to eat it since I now wasted my time and energy and all of my patience trying to multitask” kind of dinner.
In summation: I need to hire a chef. Or maybe an exorcist.
Person on tv: Age is just a number! 10yo: Yeah, a number that pulls you closer to death.
Party animal over here pic.twitter.com/OVpKPuu4Yc
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