Introverts Unite! Separately! In your own houses!

Slog hard, play hard.

WordPress’s daily blog post prompt is the solitary word “slog”.

Yeah, I totally had to Google that. To “slog” is to “work hard over a period of time.” Ex: They were slogging away to meet a deadline.

Another example: I slog friendships.

Okay, that is probably not how that word is supposed to be used, but I do totally slog friendships!

Being an introvert, it is not natural for me for to just call my buddies up and ask to hang or send a simple message to say hello. I just always assumed that since we are friends, we are good. No maintenance required. We are now lifelong friends. Done. See you in 20 years.

That sounds ridiculous, right?

Apparently, to be a friend with someone, you should probably talk to them… Maybe ask them about their day? Maybe send them a card or small, special gift to let them know you’re thinking about them? Ask about their interests, family, life happenings, etc, then follow-up.

Didn’t really learn this until a few years ago. Mind blown.

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Sometimes I am so distracted by my own little world and all the goings on in my head (full of rainbows, unicorns, giraffes giving birth, etc.), that I forget to pop into your little world and say hello.

See, I’m pretty good at being alone. Like, when the kids go to bed and the hubs is in his office in the basement, and I get the WHOLE MAIN LEVEL TO MYSELF! And it’s so gloriously quiet! And I can watch TV BY MYSELF! And I can EAT FOOD BY MYSELF! And I end up staying up later than I should because I’m relishing every minute of my alone time and recharging my mommy-bot batteries so I can be a rockstar mom and wife the next day.

But I don’t want to sound like a recluse. I love hanging with my friends–heck, I used to meet up with the gang religiously in high school every Friday night at 6 pm. I never missed a meet up with Cory, Topanga, Shawn, Eric, or Sabrina for anything!

Okay, maybe they don’t count…

Please, ABC, bring back TGIF! I miss my friends!

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So, if I’m a sucky friend, it’s because I’ve had years of practice. But don’t lose hope, dear ones, I’m slogging hard to be a better one!

Slog on!

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Shake Your Booty

“Do I have a butt? My butt is wittle! Shake dat booty! Shake dat booty!”

Now imagine this coming from a 2 year old wearing a fluffy, blue tulle Easter dress and flip flops at the check out at Joanns and you have my afternoon. Oh, and let’s not forget that she actually kinda twerked. How does she even do that???

Not that I’m complaining. These are the best days. Some days it’s timeout and stern talks, other days it’s tutus and tennis shoes. Give me tutus and tennis shoes any day!

The post about extra money…

I frickin’ hate doing the budget.

At first it’s fine because the numbers say I’m going to have extra money at the end of the month. Numbers don’t lie! Numbers are cold, hard facts, right?

So, where the heck is this “extra” money?

I’ll tell you where it is–today it’s at JC Penney.

Oh, that’s right. I’m looking at you, you dirty money grubber. I even went into Walmart–the soul thief–and came out unscathed despite the piles of adorable, 90’s throwback toddler denim dresses lined with Fall-colored florals (still really sad I didn’t buy them), but you, JC Penney. I trusted you!

It started off as the innocent perusal of the boys’ clearance and ended with a two-year-old hugging an over-priced, stuffed Sophia the First doll while exclaiming, “My dah-wee! My dah-wee!” Whoever thought it was a great idea to add a huge section of Disney toys and dress-up clothes to the children’s clothing section is a jerk. Jerkity jerk jerk jerk.

I don’t even think K-girl knows who Sophia the First is, but after having bought hoards of Matchbox cars and X-Men figurines, how was I to say no to a squishy, purple doll? Then I was obligated to let TheLittlePrince purchase something or else look like some evil Disney stepmother.

The checkout clerk smiled knowingly and said, “My little girl does that, too, and five seconds after we get home, she forgets all about her new toy.”

As I sit here typing this, I have no idea where the new doll is. My two-year-old is behind me playing with marbles. (Edited to add that she has now found the doll and been carrying her around and feeding her for 20 minutes. Maybe I’m not such a horrible parent after all. lol)

Then she asks me if I want to open a Penney’s card. I got 99 problems, but a credit card ain’t gonna be one! No thank you!

 

I march my kids out to the car…

…and drink my overpriced coffee which is probably where the rest of my “extra” goes.

Anyone have Dave Ramsey’s phone number? 😛

First Day of School!

Not even gonna lie… sometimes I have fantasies about what life will be like when all my kids are in school.

Like, I’ll have the whole house to myself. I can clean without a trail of child-droppings behind me. I can do laundry and maybe watch some Netflix between loads. I can prep supper without little people tugging on me while whining about being hungry and other basic-needs malarkey.

Kidding, people.

But as good as those fantasies are–oh, let’s not kid ourselves, they’re pretty great–there’s something they don’t tell you about parenting.

You’re children will make you bipolar. Example: There’s nothing like that seething moment when you ask your child to do something, and they look you in the eye with a daring defiance and say, “No.” You may not have been an old-fashioned, Southern momma before, but you suddenly feel the urge to find a wooden spoon…

But just as quickly as you can find a good bar of soap to wash that mouth out, your child will look at you sweetly and say, “I love you,” and no song will ever sound sweeter. Your child will win an award or a ballgame or just spell something correctly for the first time ever, and you’ll beam like he just won a Nobel Prize.

And your child will walk out the door for their first day of school, and you’ll be counting down the minutes until they come back. Sure the first 30 minutes will be blissful… until you remember that they’re the whole reason you exist and every darn thing you’ve done was for those little twerps… and you’re kinda sorta lost without them.

And as soon as they come home you’ll be hugging them and asking about their day and maybe counting the minutes until they go back again.

Or is that just me? 😛

 

A goal is a dream with a deadline

I actually put blogging on my weekly schedule.

Seriously. I had to pencil it in. Because I wait for a really great story to present itself and next thing I know the week is gone, and I haven’t blogged. It’s the Arnold Weekly. So, I kinda need to blog weekly. I actually named it that cause I thought blogging weekly would be a breeze.

Ha ha ha.

But anyway, I put it on my Google calendar as “Blog and enjoy a cup of Joe” on Thursdays at 10 am. So, here’s to being regular. 😛

I had an English teacher who told me not to start every sentence with the word “I”. Sorry, Teach. You’re gonna hate this post.

I have so many dreams. I think that’s part of being a creative person. I see potential in things–and I want to do ALL THE THINGS! ALL THE THINGS NOW!

:::Wanted to put an image here, but WordPress and the computer wouldn’t play nice together. Why can’t we all get along?:::

I want to be a great mom and raise happy and bright children. I want to be there when they need me and be able to pick them up from school when they’re sick or go to school functions. I want to be available.

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I want to grow as an artist and learn a crap ton. <–Official artist lingo. The tools I need are here, but no amount of tools make up for practice and hard work. I need to draw–a lot. Work hard, play hard.

I want to write. This is more of a bucket list thing. I write in my blog and that rocks! So fun and fulfilling, but I want to write a story. Definitely not the great American novel, though. I want to write the same fluff that I like to read because… why not? lol It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized not everybody gazed out the car window and saw a woman in white being chased in a field by some unseen force. Or told their children elaborate stories based on characters they made up. I think this is why I loved babysitting so much. I got to spend my days playing pretend with kids all day!

Being creative is like being a time bomb. Sometimes you feel like you’re about to explode with the energy and excitement of what you want to do. If I don’t find an outlet, ie drawing or knitting, I tend to go on baking sprees. lol

Other times, I get so worn down from busy schedules and housework, that trying to muster some creativity is like to trying to drink the last drop from your empty glass. 😦

I have this cool sign on my desk that says “A goal is a dream with a deadline.”

One of my favorite authors, Maggie Stiefvater, said that “the world will bow down for goals.” See the correlation? A dream is just a dream unless you have a deadline… then it’s a goal and the world will bow down for goals.

Mind. Blown.

I’ve always waited for things to be handed to me. For someone to say, “We love your work, come work with us.” Did anyone hear opportunity knock just now? No? Me neither.

But I never thought about making a list of deadlines to meet and taking charge myself. And honestly, I’ve always been a little afraid of success–afraid I couldn’t keep up once I got there. Afraid to fail.

So, I’ve decided to change the way I work. Time to be a little left-brained and more organized. Schedule blog time. Schedule art time. Participate in NaNoWriMo and WIN!

To my readers: Go get ’em, tiger! Go get inspired. Go dream. Go do the thing! And don’t stop until it’s yours. Make goals, set deadlines, and kick fear in the face!

The Lying Game

All children lie.

Maybe not all the time. Maybe not maliciously. It can be as ridiculous as a 4-year-old exclaiming that a purple dragon stole their broccoli. Or it can be a 16-year-old claiming to spend the night with a friend when they’re actually going to hit that party that you just “have to be at!”

At my house yesterday, it was about YouTube.

My oldest son, the most responsible child and the one I trust the most, lied to me. And it stung. Probably more than it should have.

…because I trusted him too much and gave him responsibility. And maybe acted like he was a little adult when he’s actually just a 10-year-old kid. My expectations of him may be a little high.

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I’ve tried to be a good Mommy–the perfect parent–by following my pediatrician’s guidelines for 2 hours or less of screen time daily (aka, video games, TV, all the things that my child lives for). And when I noticed my kids throwing tantrums and being ungrateful when it was time to turn games off or when we had to go somewhere during their screen time, I decided it was time for a break.

I declared that the month of June would be Video Game Vacation. As a family, we sat at the table and discussed their behavior and what Video Game Vacation entailed. We also made a list of fun things we could do as a family. This was not to be a punishment, but a bonding time: however, I did compromise and allowed the kids to watch Netflix and Hulu during screen time from 6 to 8, but there would be no video games or YouTube.

Why no YouTube? Well, if you have a kid school aged, you surely know already. YouTube is a way for kids to play games without actually playing games. It seems like everyone and their brother has a YouTube channel where they do video game play throughs or video game analysis or video game reviews, etc., etc., etc…..

I was relieved to have it gone, honestly, even if it was only temporarily. My kids have become so accustomed to hearing YouTubers narrate and criticize, that they actually narrate and criticize their own games. In writing, this sounds like it would be adorable, but the reality is this, “Oh man! Why is that guy here?! He’s so stupid! I hate that guy! Get out of here, man! Stupid! I’m going to blow your brains out!”

Adorable level 0. Disturbing level 100.

With that said, I didn’t want to isolate my kids or turn them into social outcasts. I wanted to find middle ground. I thought Video Game Vacation was a good way to reset their behaviors and teach them gratitude to have that privilege.

What does this have to do with lying?

Well, TheWiseOne has a tablet that we allowed him to keep to read books during Video Game Vacation. Not only is he a voracious reader, but an incredibly gifted reader! And, gosh, isn’t reading good for children? Shouldn’t they be allowed to read as much as they want? When TheWiseOne started spending hours in his room reading, I patted myself on the back.

He’ll be so smart! His teachers will be so proud in the Fall! He’ll be so academically advanced that the colleges will be busting down the door.

Well, not exactly, but I still felt like I was being a good parent. And it seemed only natural that he would want the door closed. After all, he’s maturing and desiring privacy. This is just a step toward teenage-dom.

Unfortunately, I have a delayed Mommy-sense, and it took to almost the end of June for my sensor to go off.

Why does he really want the door closed?

I felt guilty as I knocked on the door yesterday, but I had to ask.

Me: “Whatcha doing?”

TheWiseOne: *lying on the floor with tablet next to him… suspiciously shut off* “Nothing.”

Me: “No, really. What are you doing?”

TheWiseOne: “Reading.”

Me: *feeling like an interrogator* “What are you reading?”

TheWiseOne: *doesn’t miss a beat* “Harry Potter.” (I’ve been pushing him to read this, and he knows that’s what I want to hear.)

Me: *Mommy-sense is tingling strong now* “What page are you on?”

TheWiseOne: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Check.”

TheWiseOne: *starts to turn on tablet, but turns it away from me so I can’t see the screen*

Me: *Mommy-sense is screaming ‘Alert! Alert! RED ALERT!’* “Turn it so I can see it as you turn it on.”

TheWiseOne: “Okay, you caught me red handed.”

Me: “What were you really doing?”

TheWiseOne: “Watching YouTube.”

At this point, I’m shocked. I’m not angry. I’m just shocked. He defied me. He lied to me. My oldest. My good boy. My Boy Scout. How long has this been going on? After further interrogation, I find out it’s been happening for a while. Checking the YouTube watch history on my account only infuriates me.

Is YouTube so important to my kids that they would defy me and lie about it? Am I overreacting? Probably. Because I’m angry. And I’m hurt. And I’m taking the offense as a personal affront.

I take his tablet away and have to wait for TheBaldEagle to come home before we can rationally decide on a punishment. My reaction to the offense is crucial. I have to teach him the value of honesty without overreacting because I’m hurt.

Children will make you proud. And they will disappoint you, too. Because they’re human. If I were in his shoes, would I have decided to watch YouTube? Would I have resisted the temptation? Probably not. I can’t even resist a donut.

So, I go outside and pick a beautiful flower.

Me: “What is this?”

TheWiseOne: “A flower.”

Me: “No, this is my trust in you. It’s beautiful. It took time to grow. It’s delicate. And you earned it.”

TheWiseOne: *looks leery*

Me: *having a here’s-your-brain-on-drugs moment* “Here’s what happens when you lie to me.”

I destroy the flower. I pull a petal off one by one until there’s nothing left.

Me: “It’s dead. You killed it.”

TheWiseOne: *cries*

Me: (I feel bad that I made him cry. I might have been overly dramatic, but I want him to realize the importance of honesty.) “Can it grow back?”

TheWiseOne: “Yes.”

Me: “Yes, it can. Just like flowers return in the Spring. But it takes time. You have to earn it again.”

K-girl starts playing with the flower petals of trust, ending my touching mother-son moment.

I don’t expect my son to tell me everything. The teen years are around the corner and pulling away from your parents is an important part of maturing.

But I do expect honesty.

I think we both learned something from this experience. TheWiseOne learned that his mistakes make great blogging material.

And I learned to block YouTube.

 

Z-boy, let me tell you what you’ve put me through so far…

Dear Z-boy,

Today you turned 9. Let me tell you what you’ve put me through so far. (This may be a bit rushed since your sister is sitting next me, randomly whining, “Mommy!” Then staring zombie-like at Curious George while kicking the laptop.)

9 years ago–no no! Don’t you “too long, didn’t read” me and skip to the bottom! I promise, I’ll make the ride fun! Read on!

9 years ago, I was giggling like a tween girl at a Bieber concert as we signed the papers for our first house. Your dad, me, and our 1-year-old baby boy were moving from our tiny trailer to our first house (which honestly wasn’t much bigger than the trailer, but it certainly looked a lot better and stayed cooler than 90 degrees in the summer).

The move was well-timed because just a few months later, YOU were born!

*cue applause and cheers*

You were so cute! What happened?!

Just kidding! 😛 I couldn’t resist!

But seriously, you changed my life. Really, because first, you scared the crap out of me. No, I’m not talking about the time when TheWiseOne sat on you (you were fine, btw).

I’m talking about when you were 2-weeks-old and kept throwing up. Like, a lot. All the time. To the point where I was wondering if you were getting any nutrition at all.

Turns out you weren’t. You had pyloric stenosis, a condition where the muscle at the base of the stomach narrows or closes.

So, Grandma T and I stayed up all night with you in the hospital, letting you suckle sugar water from your pacifier since you couldn’t have any milk until after the surgery the next day. Try telling that to a 2 week old. That was a rough night. Glad you don’t remember it.

But you survived. That’s why you have that cool scar. Seriously, we need to make up a cool story for that scar so you can impress the ladies in college. *wiggles eyebrows in an embarrassing parental manner* 😉

You’re also the reason I’m a nurse. Yep, you can own that, bud. It was all you. Sitting in the hospital with you and watching those nurses and their compassion… Well, you get it. Now I’m the pediatric nurse. Thanks for that, buddy. ❤

So, this is getting lengthy. Let’s speed this along. You were a great baby… until you turned 4 months. I’m still wondering if you were switched with a fae changeling because suddenly my sweet, angelic baby became with a teenage toddler. Can I copyright Teenage Toddler? 😛

You were big.

You were moody.

No acne though. Thank goodness.

You were my true christening into parenthood.

TheWiseOne was pretty even keel, but not you. It was as if fate had looked upon me and said, “Oh, so you think raising kids is easy? Challenge accepted.”

Now, I’m not saying you’re a bad kid! I’m just saying that you blazed the trail, buddy. Nothing your siblings throw at me now can faze me. I have been knighted.

Call me Sir Drinksalot. Of the land of Coffee.

You got diagnosed with ADHD, and we learned about managing it. Actually, we’re still learning how to manage it. In fact, you’re learning how to manage it, too. You work so hard at this, and I’m so proud of you.

Despite all the craziness we went through, one thing was always evident. One thing about you is so unique and uniquely yours: your heart.

You have so much compassion! You sacrifice for your siblings. You cry with them when they’re sad. You defend them when they’re in trouble. You’ve actually yelled at me before on their behalf. I wouldn’t recommend doing that anymore. Thanks.

But, dude, you’re a better person than me. I learn from you.

So, Happy Birthday! We’ll probably argue over something tomorrow, and the day after that, and probably a lot more when you’re a teenager. *shudder* I’m sure I’ll lose my temper and raise my voice. You and your dad are especially good at eliciting this kind of response from me. I’m sure you’ll lose your temper, too. There will probably be tears.

But I know there will be laughter.

And there will be you. And I will always love you.

<3<3<3

Love,

Mom

 

Let’s Bury This Conversation

“Mom, when I turn 34-years-old, I’m going to be a potion tester,” says TheLittlePrince. “How old will you be when I’m 34?”

I’d just picked up TheLittlePrince from preschool. Should I reply that it’s too early to math today? “60,” I reply.

“Wow, you’re gonna be a little old. You’ll probably get married,” he laments.

I raise an eyebrow, “I’m already married! To your dad!”

“Then why do you have brown hair?!” he cries in protest.

Cue double raised eyebrow. We have gone from a strange conversation to a downright nonsensical. “TheLittlePrince, my hair is blond!

I can practically see his shocked expression as he wails, “But I have blond hair! Am I gonna get married?!”

Then it hits me. “TheLittlePrince, are you saying buried?

“What’s buried?”

Now I’ve opened a can of worms. Should’ve stayed with married.

“It what we do with people after they’ve died. We put them in the ground,” I explain for lack of a better answer. I haven’t even drank my full cup of coffee yet. It’s too early for life and death questions.

“Why?”

No, we are not going into a conversation regarding corpse decay. I’m beginning to feel like I just picked up Tim Burton from preschool instead of my own kid. “It’s just what we do. Remember when Papaw S died?” I ask, thinking of my grandfather who passed away last year.

“He died?!” cries TheLittlePrince incredulously.

I should probably feel ashamed that I’ve apparently just broken the tragic news of his great-grandfather’s death to my 5-year-old, but all I can think to do is chuckle awkwardly and say, “Where did you think he’s been all this time?” (I know, this makes me a bad parent. I’m gonna own that.)

TheLittlePrince hesitates briefly then says, “Maybe at the doctor’s office?”

That’s a long doctor’s visit. I don’t reply hoping he’ll let it go at that, but just when I think I’m going to get off the hook with this conversation…

“Do you stay dead?” he wonders.

“Yes,” I say promptly, “once you’re dead, you’re dead forever.” Unless you’re a zombie. Shudder. Not going into that one!

TheLittlePrince thinks for a moment, “Will I be dead forever?”

I really hate where this conversation is going, and I sure wish it would die! “Yes,” I feel like I can’t lie, but then I do, “But you have to be really old to die. You have to be 100.” And I’m thinking, Please don’t ask me how old Papaw S was when he died.

“100?! What about when I’m 200?!”

“Well,” I pause, “Then you’ll be a very lucky guy to live to 200.”

Somehow, that crappy answer seems to appease him. Conversation over.

“Hey, Mom!” TheLittlePrince picks up a hat. “I’m going to pretend like this thing is 100 years old, and I’m the guy who’s going to bury it!”

Not sure if I should be disturbed, but hey, Tim Burton seems to have done well for himself.

 

The Arnold Weekly–AKA, The Bodily Fluid Blog

This has been an… interesting week.

We kicked off with Easter Sunday which has 1,001 opportunities to go awry. It actually went quite well with the exception of K-girl throwing a rollicking fit on the floor because I put the hair bow that she picked out in her hair.

Oh the humanity!

Something happened on Monday that I thought was entertaining and blog-worthy, but then I blinked, did laundry, and comforted a constipated toddler, and the incident was completely wiped from my memory. I assure you, though, that it was funny and you probably would have at least smirked if not laughed out loud.

I swear, I have tons of blog material if only a hypnotist could help me remember them…

As I type this, Z-boy is directing TheLittlePrince to turn around so Z-boy can throw K-girl’s shoes at him while TheWiseOne laments, “Does no one care about me?!”

But I digress… 😉

So, today happened.

K-girl has been a little under the weather. Cold symptoms. Mild, actually. But I took her and TheLittlePrince to the pharmacy with me today while the older two were at school.

As soon as we got into the store, she asked to be carried. I thought that was a little odd since she has been Miss Super-independent-toddler-I-can-do-it-myself-thank-you-very-much, but like I said, she’s been a little under the weather.

I get to the prescription pick-up line, and she wails in a panicked voice, “I gotta pee! I gotta pee!”

Well, crap. I just got in line and she has to go. I turn around and scan the store for a restroom sign. As I’m unsuccessfully scanning for a restroom, it becomes my turn to pick up my prescription.

So, I’m thinking we live close to the pharmacy, I’ll just grab my prescription and rush K-girl home to the potty. She can usually wait a few minutes.

I put K-girl down so I can fish for my wallet as quickly as I can while K-girl does what could possibly be the most desperate pee-pee dance I’ve ever seen. Between the bouncing, horse-galloping, crotch holding, and tribal circle-walking combined with urgent whining, I think she might be making a parody of Oppa Gangnam Style.

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After putting my wallet back, I snatch K-girl up and swing her onto my hip thinking that will help appease her, but the fussy cries continue.

We can make it, I think. Just waiting for her to hand me the prescriptions…

Hot. I feel hot.

Wet hot.

I feel wet hot seeping down my side and onto my jeans, and then I hear…

…tap tap. The urine run down my shirt and is now dripping onto my canvas shoes. A few seconds later, I can feel the warm liquid seeping into my shoe and being absorbed by my sock.

Then I hear another dripping sound as the urine hits vinyl pharmacy floor.

My gosh, the child is still going! She has not only saturated my shirt, pants, and shoes, but she has actually left a puddle of piddle in the floor.

And in this moment, I am so flabbergasted that I look at the pharmacy tech, and all I can think to say is…

…”I think she peed.”

Yes. Yes, I’m pretty sure the now cold, wet spot on my thigh screams “Urine!”

And the pharmacy tech says nothing. This woman has the poker face to end all poker faces. Her face stays calm and reactionless as she finishes typing something on the computer. It’s as if urinating in the pharmacy were an everyday occurrence that doesn’t warrant any other reaction besides a slight nod of acknowledgement. Had I said, “Nice weather we’re having,” I probably would’ve gotten a bigger reaction.

Then she very calmly says, “I’ll get you some paper towels.”

Meanwhile, K-girl is now feeling the peace of the peed and is leaning on me happily and sucking her thumb. She’s two. She shouldn’t be sucking her thumb, I know. But she also shouldn’t be peeing in stores.

The tech returns with paper towels, and I make a sad attempt at cleaning the puddle. Blessedly, she hands me my prescriptions and I try to stealthily leave the store without being seen with peedy pants.

Mission accomplished! I load up the kids in the vehicle and gripe to TheLittlePrince, “I’m completely covered in urine!”

“All the way to your HEAD?!” cries TheLittlePrince in shock and awe.

“Well, not on my head,” I confess. “I suppose it could be worse.” Gotta find those silver linings.

And it’s only Tuesday.

Another Potty Humor Post Because This is My Life Now

This week I had the brilliant idea to set up TheWiseOne with an account that he can text me through on the computer.

He’s 10. So, this seemed like a logical choice. Texting is so quick and accessible. But, I’m sure I don’t need to sing the praises of texting to you. I think the world understands the beauty of it well enough.

I thought it was especially amazing as I answered the call of Mother Nature, but she forgot to send me ample toilet paper.

As I used the last bits of precious ply, I snagged my phone off the counter (because, let’s be honest, we all take our phones with us) and sent the following message to TheWiseOne:

Me: “I have a first world problem. I need toilet paper upstairs. Can you help a sister out?”

I wait rather impatiently and strain to hear the sounds of my savior’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

Nothing.

I send another message: “Are you alive?! I don’t wanna use my own socks!!!”

Nothing. Suddenly this text messaging thing doesn’t seem so brilliant.

Now I have to resort to my back up–TheBaldEagle. I was trying not to bother him since he was in the basement working, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do.

I send a plea for help to TheBaldEagle: “I need TP for my bunghole. Just plug your nose and toss a roll.”

TheBaldEagle replies: “I’m in the basement pooping.”

This is quite possibly the most disappointing text of my life. The fates are surely laughing hysterically at me.What did I do to deserve this? Did I sit on a child and fart on him in a past life? Whatever I did, karma has arrived, and she has a sick sense of humor.

Now I’ve been sentenced to the unthinkable. I pull my pants up and do the waddle of shame to the nearest TP supply.

And then, after I’ve gotten myself clean and humanized again, I receive this text message from TheWiseOne: “I am alive, mommy.”

Thanks. Good to know.