Sorry it's been so long.
It's been a busy week. And by busy I mean lousy.
My husband decides he needs to go on a vacation, on account of how "overworked" he is, which honestly, I don't understand. I mean, he works at a country club. Like, literally. It can't be that bad. Anyways, he wanted to go golfing, and go to hockey games and the like. At first I was like "Whatever. I can handle the kids by myself. I always do, anyways,"which was meant to be a jab at him, but of course he doesn't get that. He's like "Cool. Thanks, you're awesome. See you Wednesday."
I've said it before and I'll say it again- being passive aggressive does not pay.
My advice: just be aggressive. F the passive. It'll get you nowhere. Except for stuck at home with three kids.
A mere few hours after he left I was already starting to feel overwhelmed. My morning consisted of various complaints, lots of whining, lots of hitting, subsequent time outs, potty training mishaps, a dog that ran away, and several renditions of Alex's creative spin on "Oh Canada," which contains the line "I can't fix your trampoline" which is also sometimes "zamboni."
By nine fifteen I was feeling like a caged animal.
Caged with other animals. Annoying ones, like hamsters who look cute at first but then then they just keep on digging and digging and getting wood chips everywhere, and running on their wheel which keeps on squeaking, and then suddenly you look at their big hamster teeth and their cheeks all puffy cheeks and you suddenly have the urge to take that little hamster and gouge his eyes out.
So I decided to take them out. "I just need to get out of the house," I thought.
That was a mistake. It's kind of like those people,, who have bad marriages and they think that having a baby will fix everything. But then you just end up with an even worse marriage, a lack of sleep, a perpetual puke stain on your shoulder and bladder control problems.
Rule Number 2: If your kids are driving you crazy at home, they're only going to drive you crazy in public. Which is worse. Cuz then you're in public. With crazy kids. And you can't even yell at them or threaten them that if they're not good you'll go get Shadow- which is a dog that they're scared of.
Brunch did not go well.
The person sitting behind us may or may not have suffered a mild to moderate concussion after Alex threw a fork at him. He tried to climb on the table, spilling his orange juice in the process. Which might not have been that bad, except for the fact that Alex had shredded all of the napkins, which I sat back and let him do, maybe even slightly encouraged it, because after all-- he can't give anyone a concussion with a napkin.
"Alex," I told him, tyring to be firm. "You are going to go in time out right away."
Payton looked at me. "Where are you going to put him for time out, mom?"
"Touche," I said.
Anyways, when my husband came home it wasn't one of those emotional reunions you see on TV where the woman runs and lunges at her husband, wraps her legs around him and shrieks with excitement.
It was more like: I thrust Alex at him, who'd recently had another potty mishap. "Welcome home. He shit."
And then the next day he didn't even want to get out of bed.
He was like "Ohhh, I'm so exhausted. I need a vacation to recover from my vacation."
And I was like "You're not getting any sympathy from me, asshole."
Like seriously? Maybe if he hadn't drank his weight in beer he would be feeling better.
And his weight in beer, BTW, = a whole lot of beer. Like, A LOT.
Okay, that's kind of mean.
Anyways, that's why I haven't been around.