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.
Like that.
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.
Showing posts with label Me and my passive aggressive attacks that never work out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Me and my passive aggressive attacks that never work out. Show all posts
Friday, November 5, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Morning Grind
The secret to a happy marriage, if you want my opinion, is to put your husband on Prozac. I have this vision of myself crushing it up (the Prozac- not my husband) and hiding it in a hot dog- the same way I used to feed the dog her medication when she had a bladder infection. And like the dog, he would happily lap up the hot dog without bothering to wonder, if even for a second, why I have this sudden urge to feed him hot dogs three times a day.
Whether it would help or not I don't know.
It's just the little things, but a lot of little things can a big thing make.
For example, the coffee.
He claims that he doesn't drink coffee. Could never drink it. And neither could I. But somewhere between baby number two and baby number three I started drinking it periodically. Somewhere after baby number three I started drinking it fairly regularly.
So every morning I put on a half a pot of coffee, because he quote unquote doesn't drink it.
Except then, of course, he does. I pour a cup for myself and then he comes along and kills the rest of the pot.
And he won't ever initiate the coffee making. If I make it for myself, he'll drink it and drink it in fairly large quantities for someone who quote unquote doesn't drink it. If I'm running behind, the coffee pot sits there unused and vaguely murky looking, even as he takes a long, leisurely shower. The kind of shower I haven't had myself since twelfth grade--long enough for the water to run cold.
And so then I think, well screw that. I just won't make it and eventually he'll start making it.
Right?
Wrong.
I just end up going without coffee, which makes me miserable and unfailingly leaves me with a pounding headache at around one pm.
It never pays to be passive aggressive.
Never.
And then the light bulbs.
He tells me a few weeks ago that we're out. Really, I thought nothing of it. Until last week when he got rather snippy with me about it. "I told you a week ago that we were out of light bulbs, and you still haven't gotten any. I'm doing laundry in the dark."
First of all: You're doing laundry?? Is this the Apocalypse?? Although why he would be doing laundry in a doomsday scenario is not really clear. I was just trying to make a point. He doesn't oft do laundry, or as we call it in our house "the laundration (Yikes. Spell check really hates this word. It's really giving me a hard time about it) situation."
Secondly: Am I the only person in the world who has access to the exclusive light bulbing selling stores??
I mean, do I approach him when we're out of tooth paste and then wait on him to run to the store to buy it. No I go to the freaking store on my to or fro work and buy some. But no. Going to Wal Mart is like a weekend road trip for him. He cannot consider just zinging there on his way home to pick up light bulbs. I mean, how did I become the buyer of the light bulbs??
When he goes to Wal Mart, it's a production and you're gonna hear about it. It's like a weekend project. It's going to consume an entire Sunday afternoon, whereby he can be expected to nothing else, because he has to go to Wal Mart.
Anyways, I've resisted buying the light bulbs.
And now we're both doing laundry in the dark.
But mainly me, because that time he was doing the laundry was more or less a one off.
As I say, being passive aggressive simply doesn't pay.
Whether it would help or not I don't know.
It's just the little things, but a lot of little things can a big thing make.
For example, the coffee.
He claims that he doesn't drink coffee. Could never drink it. And neither could I. But somewhere between baby number two and baby number three I started drinking it periodically. Somewhere after baby number three I started drinking it fairly regularly.
So every morning I put on a half a pot of coffee, because he quote unquote doesn't drink it.
Except then, of course, he does. I pour a cup for myself and then he comes along and kills the rest of the pot.
And he won't ever initiate the coffee making. If I make it for myself, he'll drink it and drink it in fairly large quantities for someone who quote unquote doesn't drink it. If I'm running behind, the coffee pot sits there unused and vaguely murky looking, even as he takes a long, leisurely shower. The kind of shower I haven't had myself since twelfth grade--long enough for the water to run cold.
And so then I think, well screw that. I just won't make it and eventually he'll start making it.
Right?
Wrong.
I just end up going without coffee, which makes me miserable and unfailingly leaves me with a pounding headache at around one pm.
It never pays to be passive aggressive.
Never.
And then the light bulbs.
He tells me a few weeks ago that we're out. Really, I thought nothing of it. Until last week when he got rather snippy with me about it. "I told you a week ago that we were out of light bulbs, and you still haven't gotten any. I'm doing laundry in the dark."
First of all: You're doing laundry?? Is this the Apocalypse?? Although why he would be doing laundry in a doomsday scenario is not really clear. I was just trying to make a point. He doesn't oft do laundry, or as we call it in our house "the laundration (Yikes. Spell check really hates this word. It's really giving me a hard time about it) situation."
Secondly: Am I the only person in the world who has access to the exclusive light bulbing selling stores??
I mean, do I approach him when we're out of tooth paste and then wait on him to run to the store to buy it. No I go to the freaking store on my to or fro work and buy some. But no. Going to Wal Mart is like a weekend road trip for him. He cannot consider just zinging there on his way home to pick up light bulbs. I mean, how did I become the buyer of the light bulbs??
When he goes to Wal Mart, it's a production and you're gonna hear about it. It's like a weekend project. It's going to consume an entire Sunday afternoon, whereby he can be expected to nothing else, because he has to go to Wal Mart.
Anyways, I've resisted buying the light bulbs.
And now we're both doing laundry in the dark.
But mainly me, because that time he was doing the laundry was more or less a one off.
As I say, being passive aggressive simply doesn't pay.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The jury is out
Our family is in the throes of a major crisis right now.
The stomach flu.
Payton had it first. Poor girl. She was absolutely miserable. And then I had it, and I was absolutely miserable. And now Geoff has it. And we're all absolutely miserable. The way he tolerates being sick is making me sick right now. God. When I had my stomach flu I was awake practically all night long from either vomiting or nursing the baby. When babe woke up at 7, I tried to hand him over to Geoff so I could sleep for a little bit. But no can doozle. He had to get ready for work. Apparently that is a process that takes over an hour and requires total concentration. I mean, never mind the fact that I can and I do get ready every day in ten minutes flat, and true, I don't look that great most of the time- but still. Neither does he.
Okay, that was just plain mean. But I'm in a nasty mood. I mean, he stumbles out of bed this morning at quarter to ten, rubbing his eyes, moaning and groaning, listing off every symptom that he has, even though, HELLO, I had the same damn thing yesterday!! And I didn't get the luxury of sleeping in. I was up and at it at seven am, relying heavily on Gravol, soda crackers and Coke to get me through the day. I had to take Payton to dance lessons, which I didn't really want to, but I thought 'it won't be so bad once I get there' But once again, no can doozle. What I hadn't counted on was the enthusiastic proclamation of the bouncy dance instructor "PARENT PARTICIPATION DAY!!" and so there I was jumping and marching and pirouetting whilst carrying baby Alex on my left hip, sweating heavily from the flu- although, let's be honest, I probably would have been sweating regardless. Anyways, my point is , that as parents, we don't get sick days. At least, us woman parents don't.
Not to even mention the fact that when I woke up this morning the house was a balmy 26 degrees.
If I had cranked the heat up like that- do you want to know what would have happened to me??
No, you probably don't. Because it's bad.
But apparently, he's the only one that can handle the thermostat. Me, being just a silly woman, can't understand big works like "thermometer" or "temperature". Anyways, I turned the heat down to twenty. And then down to nineteen, just to spite him. Although, I don't think he's really noticed yet. Me again with my passive agressive attacks that just don't work out. I just end up being cold.
The good news is that I won ten air miles at Safeway the other day. Yes, that is what constitutes good news in our house. Pitiful, really. So I figure that, at this rate, in the next five to ten years or so I may get the chance to do some travelling. And yes. I did say Safeway. As in, not Superstore. I am done with Superstore. Every time I go there I have to wait in line for like half an hour. I figure, it's not worth it to save a few dollars. Because, really, time is money, too. Or so they say. Although, I have actually never been paid for my time, but... that's not the point. The point is, it's annoying.
So... getting back to the travelling thing... I am going to Calgary tomorrow to visit my dear friend Nadine and bringing Payton and Alex with me. I think it will be fun. Payton's first flight so I'm excited for her. It will be nice to spend some time with Nadine. We are planning on going to the Zoo, maybe doing some shopping, should be fun, except for the whole kid thing. Kidding. Love kids. But really, I do hope that they sleep at some point. It will be nice to kick back with Nadine, have a little one on one girl talk- you know, talk about our flow, tampons, that kind of thing. I don't really get that with Geoff. He doesn't like talking about my flow for reasons I don't completely understand. And he could stand to talk about it more. There's a lot that he doesn't know. Like the time that Payton stuck pads all over the bathroom wall, and Geoff said "Randine- Payton stuck tampons all over the wall" and I was like "well, that's interesting, because tampons don't really stick, Geoff." Men. Like the time he said that the liquid fabric softener I've been buying doesn't work. I was like "are you sure you're using it properly, because it seems to work fine for me?" and he was like, all indignant like "Yah. Of course I'm using it properly. What do you take me for?" And I was like "You're pouring it into the little chamber in the agitator that says "Liquid Fabric Softener"?" And he was like "Agi- what?" And I was like "my point exactly."
Turns out he was just dumping it on top of the clothes before he turned the washer on. And then he wonders why it doesn't work.
Anyways, back to my travelling. I want to get a gift for my friends kids, and I always over think these things. I was thinking of getting a Barbie or something like that for the little girl, and a truck or something for the boy. But then I could picture the conversation she would subsequently have with her husband "Honestly, Mark. She should have just got Marisa and ironing board an apron and Jared a big old fishing pole. She could really stand to take some of those gender sensitivity training classes we took at the community college." And I mean, she's totally not like that. My friend Nadine is, God bless her, one of the sweetest people I know, a close second to my dear SIL Lorrie. So now I am thinking maybe books? Those are pretty gender neutral, right? Well, unless I get a book on Sewing Applique for the girl and a Gun and Rifle Book for the boy, which I wouldn't, believe me, I wouldn't. I'm planning on steering clear of those. Believe me you, I don't need a class on gender sensitivity training at the community college to know to avoid those. God. That word 'sensitivity' is such a bitch to type. I type it wrong every time and have to go back and fix it. I just had to do it again. Argh. Anyways, ya, books, books are good, right? But you know what? They'll probably throw their books on the ground and then go off to play with their REAL toys. I'm always projecting my love of books onto other people. "You should read this book or that!" followed by thrusting said book into their arms. Buying their kids books for Christmas and their probably like "ENOUGH with the books already!! If we wanted a damn book we would go to the library!!" But oh well. If books aren't good enough for those kids, then, well, that's too darned bad. They can exchange them. I'll save the receipts.
There. I took a stand.
And speaking of books: the bad news. Another rejection letter. That's two of the four query letters I sent out in January. The other two I've practically given up on. I mean, if they were so intersted in my book you would think that they wouldn't take four months to get back to me, unless they're REALLY slow typers, which you would think, being in the book business, they probably wouldn't be, would they??. But honestly. Is my writing so shabby that they can't even dignify me with a response? A paragraph? A sentence? A rubber stamp on my original letter that says "REJECTED". I would take that right now. I really would. This business. It just sucks.
And speaking of sucking, I need to get back to my real life and tend to my ailing husband, who I can hear from down here, is snoring away up there so God only knows what my kids are doing.
Oh, thank God, he's finally resting. The poor soul. Pray for him.
Pray for ME.
TTFN.
The stomach flu.
Payton had it first. Poor girl. She was absolutely miserable. And then I had it, and I was absolutely miserable. And now Geoff has it. And we're all absolutely miserable. The way he tolerates being sick is making me sick right now. God. When I had my stomach flu I was awake practically all night long from either vomiting or nursing the baby. When babe woke up at 7, I tried to hand him over to Geoff so I could sleep for a little bit. But no can doozle. He had to get ready for work. Apparently that is a process that takes over an hour and requires total concentration. I mean, never mind the fact that I can and I do get ready every day in ten minutes flat, and true, I don't look that great most of the time- but still. Neither does he.
Okay, that was just plain mean. But I'm in a nasty mood. I mean, he stumbles out of bed this morning at quarter to ten, rubbing his eyes, moaning and groaning, listing off every symptom that he has, even though, HELLO, I had the same damn thing yesterday!! And I didn't get the luxury of sleeping in. I was up and at it at seven am, relying heavily on Gravol, soda crackers and Coke to get me through the day. I had to take Payton to dance lessons, which I didn't really want to, but I thought 'it won't be so bad once I get there' But once again, no can doozle. What I hadn't counted on was the enthusiastic proclamation of the bouncy dance instructor "PARENT PARTICIPATION DAY!!" and so there I was jumping and marching and pirouetting whilst carrying baby Alex on my left hip, sweating heavily from the flu- although, let's be honest, I probably would have been sweating regardless. Anyways, my point is , that as parents, we don't get sick days. At least, us woman parents don't.
Not to even mention the fact that when I woke up this morning the house was a balmy 26 degrees.
If I had cranked the heat up like that- do you want to know what would have happened to me??
No, you probably don't. Because it's bad.
But apparently, he's the only one that can handle the thermostat. Me, being just a silly woman, can't understand big works like "thermometer" or "temperature". Anyways, I turned the heat down to twenty. And then down to nineteen, just to spite him. Although, I don't think he's really noticed yet. Me again with my passive agressive attacks that just don't work out. I just end up being cold.
The good news is that I won ten air miles at Safeway the other day. Yes, that is what constitutes good news in our house. Pitiful, really. So I figure that, at this rate, in the next five to ten years or so I may get the chance to do some travelling. And yes. I did say Safeway. As in, not Superstore. I am done with Superstore. Every time I go there I have to wait in line for like half an hour. I figure, it's not worth it to save a few dollars. Because, really, time is money, too. Or so they say. Although, I have actually never been paid for my time, but... that's not the point. The point is, it's annoying.
So... getting back to the travelling thing... I am going to Calgary tomorrow to visit my dear friend Nadine and bringing Payton and Alex with me. I think it will be fun. Payton's first flight so I'm excited for her. It will be nice to spend some time with Nadine. We are planning on going to the Zoo, maybe doing some shopping, should be fun, except for the whole kid thing. Kidding. Love kids. But really, I do hope that they sleep at some point. It will be nice to kick back with Nadine, have a little one on one girl talk- you know, talk about our flow, tampons, that kind of thing. I don't really get that with Geoff. He doesn't like talking about my flow for reasons I don't completely understand. And he could stand to talk about it more. There's a lot that he doesn't know. Like the time that Payton stuck pads all over the bathroom wall, and Geoff said "Randine- Payton stuck tampons all over the wall" and I was like "well, that's interesting, because tampons don't really stick, Geoff." Men. Like the time he said that the liquid fabric softener I've been buying doesn't work. I was like "are you sure you're using it properly, because it seems to work fine for me?" and he was like, all indignant like "Yah. Of course I'm using it properly. What do you take me for?" And I was like "You're pouring it into the little chamber in the agitator that says "Liquid Fabric Softener"?" And he was like "Agi- what?" And I was like "my point exactly."
Turns out he was just dumping it on top of the clothes before he turned the washer on. And then he wonders why it doesn't work.
Anyways, back to my travelling. I want to get a gift for my friends kids, and I always over think these things. I was thinking of getting a Barbie or something like that for the little girl, and a truck or something for the boy. But then I could picture the conversation she would subsequently have with her husband "Honestly, Mark. She should have just got Marisa and ironing board an apron and Jared a big old fishing pole. She could really stand to take some of those gender sensitivity training classes we took at the community college." And I mean, she's totally not like that. My friend Nadine is, God bless her, one of the sweetest people I know, a close second to my dear SIL Lorrie. So now I am thinking maybe books? Those are pretty gender neutral, right? Well, unless I get a book on Sewing Applique for the girl and a Gun and Rifle Book for the boy, which I wouldn't, believe me, I wouldn't. I'm planning on steering clear of those. Believe me you, I don't need a class on gender sensitivity training at the community college to know to avoid those. God. That word 'sensitivity' is such a bitch to type. I type it wrong every time and have to go back and fix it. I just had to do it again. Argh. Anyways, ya, books, books are good, right? But you know what? They'll probably throw their books on the ground and then go off to play with their REAL toys. I'm always projecting my love of books onto other people. "You should read this book or that!" followed by thrusting said book into their arms. Buying their kids books for Christmas and their probably like "ENOUGH with the books already!! If we wanted a damn book we would go to the library!!" But oh well. If books aren't good enough for those kids, then, well, that's too darned bad. They can exchange them. I'll save the receipts.
There. I took a stand.
And speaking of books: the bad news. Another rejection letter. That's two of the four query letters I sent out in January. The other two I've practically given up on. I mean, if they were so intersted in my book you would think that they wouldn't take four months to get back to me, unless they're REALLY slow typers, which you would think, being in the book business, they probably wouldn't be, would they??. But honestly. Is my writing so shabby that they can't even dignify me with a response? A paragraph? A sentence? A rubber stamp on my original letter that says "REJECTED". I would take that right now. I really would. This business. It just sucks.
And speaking of sucking, I need to get back to my real life and tend to my ailing husband, who I can hear from down here, is snoring away up there so God only knows what my kids are doing.
Oh, thank God, he's finally resting. The poor soul. Pray for him.
Pray for ME.
TTFN.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Testy
So, he got the snip. It went well, no complications. He is resting now in bed. Where he has been for the last six hours. I mean, honestly, I NEVER got six hours to myself to recuperate, not even when I had three kids and four miscarriages (not all at the same time, mind you. But still- it wasn't no picnic in the park). Basically, he just dropped me off at home, kissed me on the cheek with a clipped "Love you. And don't forget to get me that shaving cream I need when you're out and about today." A bit different than his leisurely day in bed. I went out and got him BK for breakfast, gave it to him in bed. I go in there every four hours to give him his Tylenol and reposition his peas. I've kept the kids quiet and have only let them go in there when he's awake. I've taken them out for part of the day. I'm cooking his dinner and serving it to him in bed. I've been liberally retopping his Pepsi. I ask him what he needs. And he's always laying there, pathetic and miserable like, moaning and groaning. It's not that I don't feel bad for him... because, of coure, I do. But... I hope this doesn't doesn't sound to weird... but I think that I'm actually jealous of him. I'm thinking "surgery's looking pretty freaking good right about now." I could do with a day lying my ass in bed all day getting served croissantwiches and codeine. But then, of course, if I'd have had surgery, things would be different, now wouldn't they? I would be in bed, all right, with all three kids because Geoff is trying to watch Football on the big screen.
Oh, well.
Anyways, the dream of the twins is not totally dead. We were informed this morning that it would take 20 ejaculations before the spermies were out of his system. According to my calculations that could take us 2 years or more. Sadly, I'm not even joking about that. I think since Lex has been born we've "been intimate" about half a dozen times. And those 6 times all together probably accounted for less than five minutes of my life. I'm hardly complaining about that, though. These days I'm so tired and exhausted- I can't even take the time to brush my teeth. The last thing I would want is a night of passionate love making. Usually I approach the subject the same way I would approach getting a booster shot. "I know I'm due for this now, so I'll just look away and it will all be over before I even know it." I guess that's bad to say it that way, but when I go to bed at night the only thing I want to do is watch Seifeld reruns (I never get sick of that show). If this is my sexual prime than I'm in big trouble down the line.
But we'll worry about that later.
Not only has my husband been driving me crazy, the children are also wearing me down. Honest to God, you cannot say or do ANYTHING without a full out interrogation. I put a package in the microwave and this is suddenly the most interesting thing. "What are you doing, mom?" "I'm putting chicken in the microwave" - you wouldn't think you would have to state the obvious- but you do. And then they're like "Why?' "Because we're having chicken for supper"
I go to the bathroom. I'm out of the room for two minutes and they're all over me like hounds. "Where did you go?"
"To the bathroom"
"Why"
"Because I had to go the bathroom" (stating the obvious)
"Poop or pee?"
I mean there is NO privacy in this house. NONE.
Even last night I was changing the sheets on my bed and Gage (11) came in my room and asked what I was doing. "Changing the sheets" I replied. He's like "I hate to even ask... but why?" I was like "It's not what you think- the cat puked on here" but thinking about it later I should have told him something else- something that might make him reconsider sticking his nose in his parents bedroom.
A thousand inane conversations like this all day every day and you start to answer the questions in a shrill, high pitched voice. And then the kids go "Holy mom, settle down. We can't even ask you a question." And even Geoff is no better. He's like "Testy today? That time of the month?" And then that's supposed to be a joke, I guess, but of course, I don't laugh and only offer a dirty look in response, and then Geoff's like "I'll take that as a yes."
Sometimes you feel like just popping them one square in the freaking jaw.
But I have good coping mechanisms and a good support system.
The Chardonnay I keep in the fridge.
Oh, well.
Anyways, the dream of the twins is not totally dead. We were informed this morning that it would take 20 ejaculations before the spermies were out of his system. According to my calculations that could take us 2 years or more. Sadly, I'm not even joking about that. I think since Lex has been born we've "been intimate" about half a dozen times. And those 6 times all together probably accounted for less than five minutes of my life. I'm hardly complaining about that, though. These days I'm so tired and exhausted- I can't even take the time to brush my teeth. The last thing I would want is a night of passionate love making. Usually I approach the subject the same way I would approach getting a booster shot. "I know I'm due for this now, so I'll just look away and it will all be over before I even know it." I guess that's bad to say it that way, but when I go to bed at night the only thing I want to do is watch Seifeld reruns (I never get sick of that show). If this is my sexual prime than I'm in big trouble down the line.
But we'll worry about that later.
Not only has my husband been driving me crazy, the children are also wearing me down. Honest to God, you cannot say or do ANYTHING without a full out interrogation. I put a package in the microwave and this is suddenly the most interesting thing. "What are you doing, mom?" "I'm putting chicken in the microwave" - you wouldn't think you would have to state the obvious- but you do. And then they're like "Why?' "Because we're having chicken for supper"
I go to the bathroom. I'm out of the room for two minutes and they're all over me like hounds. "Where did you go?"
"To the bathroom"
"Why"
"Because I had to go the bathroom" (stating the obvious)
"Poop or pee?"
I mean there is NO privacy in this house. NONE.
Even last night I was changing the sheets on my bed and Gage (11) came in my room and asked what I was doing. "Changing the sheets" I replied. He's like "I hate to even ask... but why?" I was like "It's not what you think- the cat puked on here" but thinking about it later I should have told him something else- something that might make him reconsider sticking his nose in his parents bedroom.
A thousand inane conversations like this all day every day and you start to answer the questions in a shrill, high pitched voice. And then the kids go "Holy mom, settle down. We can't even ask you a question." And even Geoff is no better. He's like "Testy today? That time of the month?" And then that's supposed to be a joke, I guess, but of course, I don't laugh and only offer a dirty look in response, and then Geoff's like "I'll take that as a yes."
Sometimes you feel like just popping them one square in the freaking jaw.
But I have good coping mechanisms and a good support system.
The Chardonnay I keep in the fridge.
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