Spring Break 2013.

This week has been one of the longest, most exhausting weeks of my life. Spring Break, you’re a a BITCH. I just have to make it through today and tomorrow. Then I’m taking the boys to my parent’s house so I can recover enough to shower and dress myself and drive to Mississippi for my 15-year high school reunion.

I’ve been trying to embrace this time with just two kids. I’m sure that is what my future self with three kids would tell me, that I should be enjoying this because shit’s about to get real, sister. I’m really trying to enjoy my days, taking one moment at at time and breathing deep yoga breaths between having puke blown in my face and watching ONE dump his little brother face-first into the Pack N’ Play as I scream NOOOOOOO!”

We’ve watched a ton of TV and I DON’T CARE. I’ve fed them crap and I DON’T CARE. We have not visited the Easter Bunny or gone on an egg hunt or to the library or any of the other things good mothers do with their children. 

We have learned magic tricks and learned how to peel cucumbers and played outside until Mommy’s nerves can’t take it anymore. I’ve yelled and apologized a lot. I’ve hugged and kissed them a lot. I hope that they know that I love them both … and I’m thankful they are too young to remember this difficult season of life. 

This will not be the Spring Break that they think of when they reminisce about their childhood.  

Hopefully this one will be kind of murky.

Sesame Street with peacock hair and cowboy boots and mouth agape.

These moments help me cope with the OTHER ones. Yes, we are watching TV again.

This is TWO perched on the tray part of his high chair. WHY. GET DOWN, OMG.  

I haven’t seen Husband much. I’m too exhausted by 8:30 p.m. when he gets home to actually spend time with him. I mumble hello and shuffle off to bed in my bag lady clothes, feeling pity for the man who probably wonders what has happened to his wife.

I’m still in there somewhere. I’ll come back to life at some point. Right now I’m so jealous of women who have their husbands home at night to help them. Spoiled bitches. I’m angry at all of you and I HOPE YOU APPRECIATE YOUR MEN IF THEY ARE HOME FOR DINNER. Even if they park on the couch and space out, you can still have the luxury of telling the kids, “Go play with Daddy!” to get them out of your way.

I like to plan ahead.

I’ll leave you with this: now I finally understand how moms don’t have time to shower or poop. I hope that when this time of my life draws to a close … when all of my kids are ages 3 and up and know better than to climb on the kitchen counters … I really hope I can remember how to function like a normal adult who showers and brushes her teeth. 

I know, I know. Somebody needs to call the whambulance.

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