As a stay at home mom with a husband who works across a bridge and through an unholy amount of traffic that doesn’t get home until dinner should probably be long since over but we hold it off for him because we like to eat as a family (and because I don’t like to cook with Klingons whining at my feet and Daddy is an uber distraction)- I look forward to the weekend.
Friday comes along and I MIGHT even do a happy little jig. Not really because the husband will be home and i’m SOOO SO HAPPY to bask in his presence or any dumb shit like that- but because it’s an extra pair of hands to deal with the two pairs of hands i’ve been dealing with all week by myself. Even if this extra pair of hands whines more than the two pairs of hands- it’s still extra, so it helps. So yeah, I look forward to the damn weekend. I might not get to sleep in, I might have to scrub toilets and vacuum floors- but damnit, I still look forward to it anyway.
And then along comes the weekend from hell. The weekend that makes Monday look like a tropical vacation. DId you EVER think you would look forward to Monday? I mean, I am typically totally pro Office Space, smashing copiers, burning the building down “if you ask me if I have a case of the Mondays one more time i’ll throat-punch your stupid ass” when it comes to my pure hatred of the evil that is Monday. That is, until this weekend. What an odd turn of events one weekend gone awry can have.
You know the kind. It’s that special weekend where you made super special plans to go somewhere, only it takes hours upon hours to get there. Possibly because of traffic, possibly because of children who insist on stopping to pee, or eat, or whine. A lot of whine. And not the kind of whine you can drink (that doesn’t have an H in it, duh) that gives you the happies after the whine WITH the H.
So you finally get your ass to where you need to be only to realize that where you NEED to be is 3 blocks away, so you have to walk. And it’s raining. So you’re walking 3 blocks in the rain, and it’s not a quick walk because you have to wait for pedestrian “ok you can walk now without getting smacked by a truck” signs to tell you that you can walk… so it’s a lot of standing. In the rain.
And when you finally get to where you’ve been walking to, your kids beg and plead for some kind of souvenir of this super special 4 hour in traffic and rain trip- and you realize everything is $25 and up… but you fucking promised months ago that all the change they’d been saving up, that equals under a dollar, could be spent at this super special event thingie, and they’re so damn excited to finally spend all this money they’ve been saving. There goes your bank account.
For once you decided to follow instructions and not bring a camera because this super special event said specifically ABSOLUTELY NO CAMERAS only to get to your seat and what do you see? Every fucking body else with a camera. And your phone camera blows. Like REALLY blows. Like every picture comes out looking like those pictures people took in “The Ring.”
In order to get out of this super special event, which was 2 hours long and had technical difficulties that you emptied your bank account on (and we’re not just talking about the souvenirs) – you have to walk BACK the 3 blocks. And it’s raining even harder. And then you realize that you’re trying to get out of this city, this BIG BUSY CITY, in rush hour traffic. Only to go and stay with your inlaws because the husband, you know, the one who’s supposed to be the “helping hands”? Insisted on saving money by not getting a hotel room in the city, or near the city. Oh no, he insisted to stay with family, so you’re doing all this walking in the rain and sitting in another hour of traffic just to go and stay with the inlaws.
|What? I’m not being dramatic at all!|
So you finally get there, you make it through dinner (which was another 30 or so minutes away) unscathed, make it back and you’re fucking exhausted. You’re SO ready to go to bed after all the driving and the walking and the money spending and the rain that you just can’t wait to collapse into bed… only to crawl into the bed and realize it’s stone solid. Hands down the hardest bed you’ve ever felt- even worse than those bed-set displays at the department stores that instruct you not to sit on them because they’re actually made of cardboard. Or granite. A bed so hard you have to wonder if it once doubled as a medieval torture device. You then begin to curse this husband, aka ‘the extra pair of hands’ for not springing for the hotel room, not that you aren’t appreciative of saving some money, or the hospitality, but because this bed might literally maim you. Did I mention you have chronic neck and back issues? Yeah, it might literally maim you to sleep on this contraption disguised as a bed.
You wake up the next morning after easily the worst night of sleep ever since the night you went into labor and spent the entirety writhing in pain and screaming curse words while a child forced their way out of your vagina in more pain than forcing a child out of your vagina caused. Hooray for a brand new trigger point thanks to the wooden boat I slept on.. I mean.. bed.. last night! You also have one eye that is so bloodshot you fear it might explode out of your head, and a mysterious rash covering the majority of your chest- as if tiny boobs weren’t bad enough.
And guess what- it’s still raining, which ruins all of the plans you might have had to do that day since you DID drive hours upon hours in crap ass traffic with two bratty kids, and it would make the spending of all the money for the show that you didn’t get any good pictures of because you followed the rules for once more worth it. Day ruined.
So what do you decide to do? Er… or what does the husband, mister penny pincher “helping hands” decide to do? He decides to go home. He wants to drive home in the rain, in what is most certainly going to be horrid traffic because no one seems to realize that driving in rain isn’t likely going to kill you unless you drive in rain like it’s going to kill you, while you stand there and look at him like he’s on drugs because you just nearly killed yourself trying to sleep on a medeival torture device and you’re quite positive that driving home, which is sure to take twice as long as driving up, with this level of extreme pain and bright and shiny new trigger point is what is going to be listed as cause of death on your death certificate, which you are sure to earn on your way home on hour eleventy-gajillion of this trip from hell.
But whatever, you frickin’ do it, because there’s nothing else to do and you’re just exhausted and you can’t sleep on a stone slab for another night- so it’s homeward bound. And whattaya know, even though “helping hands” husband claimed there wouldn’t be traffic because “It’s a Saturday!”, you end up sitting in 2 hours of that shit (the kind of traffic where if it were nuclear fallout or zombie apocalypse- you’d be dunzo, ’cause you ain’t movin’), while the kids whine, fight, scream, and slap at each other the entire time- and you’re so exhausted and in so much pain that you continually nod off, which let me tell you, is NOT good for this brand new shiny trigger point you developed.
By the time you finally roll your ass back into town, it’s dinner time. It’s past dinner time, so you have to pick dinner up… nothing sounds appealing. You’re so tired that you aren’t even hungry and nothing even sounds good but you know you have to eat because not eating is not healthy and you’re damn sure by midnight you’ll be starving and if you don’t eat now but eat then it’ll go straight to your saddlebags and you’ll have no one to blame but your own damn self for not eating at the proper time… so you just order. And when you FINALLY get home, walk in the door to your house (where the air has been off for two days and it doesn’t exactly smell pleasant), and sit down to dig in.. you realize you ordered the wrong fucking thing. Blue cheese AND hardboiled egg? Fucking SUPERBARF. It takes so long to pick all of that crap out of your dinner that everyone finishes before you, and they’re so tired they throw gigantic fits right up until bed time- which is when you realize this weekend you’ve been SO looking forward to with the special event and the “helping hands money pinching” husband and the whiny brats? Yeah… Not all it was cracked up to be. You won’t be looking forward to weekends again, and you still have one more day to kill with these buttholes.
So yeah… Anyone else ever had a weekend like that? No? Just me?
That’s what I thought.
At least I feel better now that i’ve whined it out of my system (yes, the one WITH the H). A little whine never killed anyone- I would know. Need I remind you about the car ride again?
Please stop Complimenting my kids’ “Good” Behavior goo.gl/fb/rwfojS
Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.
Parenthood is when you start counting the minutes to bed time before 11am.
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