Thursday, November 15, 2012

Some Weeks, This is All You Get

There are good weeks. Really, really good weeks with maybe one bad night and a cranky afternoon thrown in, but in all...really GOOD weeks.

This isn't one of them.

This is the week where all you get is a crying, screaming, gassy baby and a teething, insane, wretch of a toddler. Where the preschooler talks back like a sailor and the big kid takes the order form you filled out for the school book fair, trashes it, and then proceeds to get a bunch of books just for himself (ignoring the Llama Llama and Olivia books for his siblings).

This is the week where you feel crazy. Like, crying and shaking your fist skyward kind of crazy where you understand how that weird woman in the newspaper holed herself up in her house with 9,003 cats and never talked to anybody ever again. It's a mad kind of crazy that makes you resent being home alone with four kids for so long every day. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.

 The kind of week where you put in 14 hour days with nothing but the 25 minute run you were allowed to take around the park. Twenty-five measly little minutes where you didn't have to burp something, change something, discipline somebody or listen to incessant, unstoppable crying. This is the week where you think maybe you ought to talk to your union boss about a raise or at least a smoke break or two because the current system just ain't working.

This is the week where you can't sit down. You can't open a book. A magazine. A web page. You can't answer the phone. You can't stop walking with baby or toddler until there is a path worn in your carpet and when one finally settles down, the other needs the last milligram of energy left in your body. Where you consider a 5 hour energy at 9 p.m. JUST to make it through til one of the falls asleep...knowing you'll be up again at 2 a.m. This is the kind of week where you just say "f$^% it" and the rest of the house can figure out how to use the washer and dryer or figure out how to recycle clothes. Where you step over a laundry pile of Montana and just don't care. of those weeks.


P.S.  It gets better, right?
P.P.S. I love my kids.
P.P.P.S. I really do.


1 comment:

  1. Imagine mine 13. No less fussy, gassy or upset. No lesser amount of screaming...
    Only vile words come to.

    It gets better. And it gets worse. Then it gets better again. And someday, they leave the house.