If you are able to go to the bathroom today without it being a circus event, don’t take it for granted.
I’m in a place in my life right now where everything is a problem, particularly trips to the bathroom. Children toddle after me, play in my makeup drawer, and stretch my prescription glasses to oblivion when I am indisposed. So if you’re reading this post while sitting on the toilet in peace … BE GRATEFUL, IS ALL I’M SAYIN’.
In this particular season, which seems infinitesimal, it’s hard to find time to write or maintain and build friendships. It’s hard to keep food in the house. It’s hard to strike a balance every day and not ignore my children.
Sometimes I wish everyone would just go away so I could do yoga in our living room, because surely a few sun salutations would make everything seem more manageable, right?! Yogis are such relaxed people.
Other relaxed people:
1. Marijuana farmers and consumers.
3. That guy “Chubs” on Pawn Star.
4. Robbie Hobbs.
My husband, the aforementioned Robbie Hobbs, is extremely supportive of my writing. He is truly my biggest cheerleader, and I can’t say enough how vital he is to any success I’ve had or will see in the future. I definitely need him by my side, and he’s there … until he runs out of his favorite boxers. Then he’s all, “Where are all my boxers?! What do you do all day?!” (Note: asking this question never ends well.)
I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I DO ALL DAY, MOTHERF*CKER.
I drag three kids to an allergist appointment and, due to an unfortunate series of events, never wish to call the allergist, think of the allergist, or show my face at the allergist’s office again.
I feel like a terrible mother multiple times per day, because apparently women are wired to self-loathe and self-question and over-think everything to the point of exhaustion. My kid knows the words to that song?! I’m a terrible mother. My kid tried to fight a nurse?! I’m a terrible mother. Eggo waffles are processed in a factory?! I’m a terrible mother. I have varicose veins there? I’m a terrible mother.
I didn’t say it had to make sense. Just shut up.
I patch up thumbs when they get smashed in doors. I untangle cords. I help build block towers and break up fights when the tower is inevitably knocked down.
I remind that we do not bite.
And finally, I give our little boys graham crackers to eat for their afternoon snack and I send them outside. I pat myself on the back for having the foresight to serve crumbly crackers outside and not inside, thus avoiding the extra work of sweeping the kitchen.
I then hear an inordinate amount of noises that I can’t quite identify. I allow it to continue for longer than I should, because I am unable to muster the will to stand.
Eventually, the noise level increases and I get up to investigate. I hear myself yelling something that I never imagined saying to anyone, ever: “OH MY GOD, DID YOU SHOVE GRAHAM CRACKERS UP YOUR BUTT?!”
The answer is yes, he definitely did.
My middle child, underwear filled with pulverized crackers, was gleefully throwing crumbs at his older brother and yelling “BOOTY CRUMBS!” as they laughed hysterically.
“They’re crammed really far up there,” my oldest offered helpfully.
Indeed, they were.
Next time anyone anywhere in any situation asks me, “What do you do all day?” I’m going to look them in the eye and say *cram crackers.
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