I'm just about at the end of my rope.
I'm full of blame.
And most, and worst, of all:
I'm nearly hopeless.
Sometimes, it's just too much. It's just too overwhelming. You don't know what to do, so you just pretend like everything is fine. You deny and deny some more. And then, it all comes crashing down, all your layers of denial, and the brick wall you hit is bigger than you ever imagined it could be.
Sometimes, you just need someone to remind you:
IT'S WORTH IT.
I could use some reminding right now.
I'm just about at the end of my rope.
So The Dictator's sick. And he's been sick since Saturday, but since I'm, #1. The Mother of the Year, and #2. A big fan of medicating and waiting it out- I didn't take him to the doctor. I figured it was a cold, and after ingesting enough children's Tylenol and Ibuprofen to kill a Velociraptor, he'd be fine.
Until he got bumpy.
Now, I'm no doctor...but I'm pretty sure my son's exterior should be smooth and bump-free. So off to the land of Kaiser fun we went.
We sat in the Land of Sickness and Filth for 30 minutes before we were called in. The Dictator was measured, weighed and temperature-checked, all of which reminded me of a cow going to the slaughter.
Then, the blessed Doctor, Patron Saint of Prescription Medicine, floated into the room. She looked at The Dictator's throat, checked out his bumpiness, and boldly declared:
"He has Scarlett Fever."
What the shit is Scarlett Fever? Isn't that something that existed back in the days of Cholera and the Black Plague? Is it even possible to get it now? And why don't we immunize for it? Because dammit, I may let my kid have a fever for three days, but I stick to that immunization schedule like white on rice.
My mind was reeling with the newly heightened levels of bad parenting I had reached. My son, my beloved Dictator, had something called Scarlett Fever, and it was all my fault. Next thing I knew, he'd be foaming at the mouth and trying to bite our dogs.
Scarlett Fever, it turns out, is just what strep becomes when it gets into your system. So my son had strep, and because he was born to neglectful parents, it spread. Hence, his skin became bumpy, which is when I, being the perceptive parent I am, noticed it.
I'm just saying...if your kid has a fever for three days, and when you finally take him to the doctor, they tell you he has Scarlett Fever...then you might be the best parent on earth.
I'm a little twisted. Everyone knows that.
But what most people don't know is that I'm not the only twisted one in my house.
Today, our God-forsaken laptop was running slower than...well, nothing that I have a good metaphor for, but it was insanely slow. I was getting frustrated and bitter, because hello people, I have Facebooking to do! Let's go! Now! What if I miss a witty comment? I might die!
Anyhow, Hubs just happened to walk by as I was raging.
M: For the love of God! This is ridiculous. It's 5:43, that's like prime Facebook time, and I can't get online. I'm going to miss close, personal revelations with friends I haven't spoken to in 15 years, all because this damn computer is clogged up!
H: Huh. Maybe I should back off the porn.
I'm pretty sure he was kidding.
There you go, kiddos, that was approximately 98% of my Christmas, in some form or another. Either I was watching it, or playing it, or listening to it, or trying to throw it away without anybody noticing, or threatening to kill one and/or all the boys in my house if they didn't turn it down, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TURN THE DAMN ROCK BAND DOWN!
The good news? My kids are learning an appreciation for classics like 'Aqualung' and 'Carry On My Wayward Son'.
The bad news? I suck. But at least Rock Band is nice enough to let me know that I suck.
Now The Hormone King is convinced that he needs a drum set so he can become a rock star and make millions of dollars, snort lines of cocaine off hookers' asses and end up on Celebrity Rehab at the age of 14.
Curse you, Wii Rock Band 2. You're paying for the sober living house.
Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,
I suppose it's time to blog about my Christmas.
I mean, it is January 7th, and all.
It was good. Lots of time off equals less pay for Babe, so that sucks, but we managed to squeak through the holidays relatively unscathed.
And this year, we tried to be all domestic and shit too. You know, because that's what good families do during the holidays. And we're a good family, dammit, so Martha Stewart, here we come.
Our first foray into domesticity was a gingerbread house.
*Note to self: Never, ever, ever attempt any sort of gingerbread anything ever again. It doesn't matter how many other people sucessfully craft a cookie dwelling, or that Michael's sells amazing kits that have beautiful pictures of heavenly bliss...yours just isn't going to look anything like that. EVER. No matter how hard you try, or how many curse words you use, yours is still going to fall apart.
Gingerbread housing with the boys, it turns out, is much like Halloween pumpkining with the boys. I have this image in my mind of what it's going to be like. I imagine the whole family bonding, stretching our creative abilities to the limit, for hours and hours and hours of fun. We'll laugh, and tell silly stories, and compliment each other on our amazing gingerbread accomplishment.
Instead, the boys watch TV while we do all the hard work, come over to decorate for 20 seconds, ask to eat all the candy, throw things at each other, drop 4000 sugar bits on the ground, get bored and leave.
Norman Rockwell would have a freaking coronary.
So, here's the house as we (read: The Guy That's Sleeping on the Couch and I) started:
And here's the boys, during their 20 second decorating blitz:
Look at that intense concentration. And, to his benefit, TGTSOTC did manage to actually make icicles on our gingerbread house. So that totally makes us more domestic.
Granted, it looks like the door is melting off into the foundation of the home, but I think it turned out pretty damn good.
Martha Stewart better watch her domestically inclined ass, because the wieners and I are coming right up on it.
I just re-read that sentence.
Shit, I'm funny.
Somebody needs to come to my house, break down the door, find my laptop, pry it out of my cold, evil hands, run out the door as fast as they can, and remove Facebook from my life forever.
It's a little addicting.
I mean, just because I race home to check my Wall before I even say hi to the boys or Babe...that doesn't mean anything, right?
And just because I frantically search the site, trying to find one more, just one more, familiar face I can add as a friend (even though we haven't technically spoken in 15 years)...I mean, that's totally normal behavior for a 31-year old wife and mother of two, isn't it?
And just because I private chat with friends that I could just as easily pick up the phone and call until 1:30 in the morning on a Monday...that doesn't mean I'm addicted.
I'm totally not addicted.
If you have something to say to me, you write it on my Wall, dammit. I'm no longer taking those old-school "phone calls" you speak of.
I'll be online at 5:32 p.m., give or take 10 or 20 seconds.
It's 12:58 a.m. New Year's Day.
Happy freaking New Year! In 2009 I'm going to lose weight and manage my finances better, and blah, blah, blah.
I came to the conclusion years ago that New Year's just isn't the same once you become a parent. Tonight, that conclusion was confirmed.
I really had the best intentions of celebrating New Year's like you're supposed to. We gathered up the fam and headed to our friends' house for the evening, with about 20 other people and 15 other kids. Their pool was heated, alcohol was aplenty and we were ready to party like it's 1999.
We got there about 7:30, and since I was out to have a good old-fashioned shitfaced New Year's, I started drinking right away.
I was more than a little tipsy by 8:00. Literally, 30 minutes later. One wine cooler and I'm off and running, as those of you who hang out with me in real life know.
So I'm off to a good start, and I'm socializing and hobnobbing and having a grand old time like my kids didn't even exist. Except for the fact that every 1.5 seconds, I heard, "Mom, look!" from the pool, because The Hormone King was insistent on showing off his very best dance moves on the diving board.
Around 9:00, I started wondering if it was almost midnight. I was exhausted, and Hubs was exhausted, and it was cold, and WHEN THE HELL DID I GET SO WHINY?
At 9:30, The Dictator started feeling sick. At 9:40, The Dictator started burping and spitting a lot, so we ran to the bathroom, where he hugged The Porcelain God for about 15 minutes while a line formed outside.
From 9:45 to approximately 10:30, I tried everything known to man to calm his stomach, make him happy and stop the horrific whining. We finally ended up on a recliner, under a blanket in my friends' living room, watching an auto auction. Commence checking of watch for time updates.
At 10:30, The Dictator started feeling better so he wandered back to the playroom to hang out with the other little humans in the house. I had stopped drinking when he started feeling sick in case I needed to drive home, so that was over too. Yeehaw.
For the next hour and 20 minutes I watched the UFC fight from last weekend, checked my watch another 11 times and tried to prevent Hubs from lapsing into a sleep deprivation coma in the living room. In said hour and 20 minutes, I was visted approximately 14 times by The Dictator, who came in to tell me that the boys weren't sharing, the boys weren't letting him play, the boys weren't listening to him, and how many more crackers can I have before I barf again?
At 11:50, I rolled myself off the sofa and went outside to prepare for the festivities (which really meant securing a good spot by the fire pit so I wouldn't freeze my sufficiently large ass off).
And then...12:00 hit. There were horns and poppers and Dom Perignon and children screaming "Happy New Year!", and all I could think as I looked at the whole shabang was, "Huh. I wonder who's going to clean all this up tomorrow."
Yes, friends, New Year's just isn't quite the same when you're a parent...but I wouldn't have it any other way.