In all seriousness:

I'm really struggling today.

I'm going through boxes of Shortpants' clothes, preparing for a massive garage sale. It is beyond time that this is done, but I've put it off for so long because I knew how emotional it would be. And I'm talking levels of emotion here.

Level number 1: My little guy is four. FOUR. Holy crap. FOUR. It's not hard for a second to remember him tiny, and squishy, and wiggly, and screamy, and AWAKE, but it's just a reminder that my boy is a big kid now, and I just don't like it one bit.

Level B: It takes me back to a life that no longer exists. When his dad and I were married. When I thought I was happy. When I thought I was doing all I could to be the best mom and wife I knew how to be, and it wasn't enough. When I couldn't see the forest for the trees. When I was working so hard to keep my head above water and make sure my kids were first and foremost, as they should be, and that wasn't enough.

Level III: I'm done having babies. As in, I can't have any more babies. After a hysterectomy this summer (more on that another day), this oven is closed for business. And it's a really good thing and really sucky all at the same time, and another another day, when my thoughts aren't jumbled by the massive traffic jam going on in my brain right now, I may attempt to decipher my thoughts and emotions surrounding that. I just don't have the energy today.

It also takes me to a time before the Autism diagnosis. When I was worrying about his development and his doctor wasn't concerned, and I knew something wasn't quite right, but we just kept on l-i-v-i-n, because as I mentioned above, keeping my head above water and fighting my anxiety and depression that follows me wherever I go in check was almost more than I could handle.

I know it's just stuff. I get that. But just like smells can spark a memory, so can his tiny little socks and badass shirts (that a certain someone told me I probably shouldn't send him to daycare in again...lol). I can't wipe out those memories, for unlike people who come and go in and out of our lives, memories stay.

I should mention that I am the happiest I have been in years. I am in a relationship with someone who has shown me what love truly is - what it means to love fully and to be loved fully in return. I have a son who is the light of my life, and I am so honored to be his mama.

Today just kind of sucks though.

That's all.

And then...?

Something happened earlier this week that I don't think has ever happened before in the history of me. I was getting ready for work, kind of running behind, tripping over the kid, trying to make a mental list of all the shit that I can't forget (because I am not organized and do that at night because I like my sleep) and I looked in the mirror.

Okay. I  have looked in the mirror before. Sentence structure and thought development probably should happen AFTER coffee is consumed.

So I looked in the mirror. I have a  habit of putting my pjs back on and doing my hair and make up. For two reasons: 1) My pjs are ugly and grandma-y and fucking COMFY, and B) there's a 99.99% chance I'll wind up with mascara, toothpaste, and somehow yesterday's breakfast on my work clothes. I'm not one for hanging out around my house naked, and the kid thinks belly buttons are fascinating and will attempt to try to use mine as a hiding place for some random toy, so no.

Hair? Cooperated! Makeup? Bags and zits (wtf, I'm 36 years old, take a fucking hike already) covered! Do I look..... good? Borderline sexy?!? I DO! Holy shit! Even in my grandma jammie pants, white Hanes t-shirt (tagless, thankyouverymuch Michael Jordan), no bra and my test tube boobs just kind of dangling... I. Felt. SEXY.

And then? I found a gray nose hair.

Good feeling gone.

Of course.

Please Hold For A Very Important...

Fuck you.

Ahh.... I love the smell of telemarketers at bedtime.

Dear Businesses of America (who rarely hire Americans in their call centers),

There's this little thing called the No Call List. I happen to be on it. My cell phone is registered. My house phone is registered. Yet, you still call me. It's not the Call Me Maybe Call List, or the Call Me When I'm Doing 163 Other Things All At The Same Time Call List, but the NO call list. I'm pretty certain that I looked a lot like this when you called earlier, Acme Asshole Business (Don't worry, Discover Card, I won't tell them it was you. Or that I don't have a Discover Card for you to be calling me about. Oh. Wait.):

Yep. That's exactly what I looked like.

And really, before anyone gets all Judgy McJudgerson up in mah face, I know that Acme Asshole Business(es) are helping the unemployment numbers by pissing me off on a regular basis. It's a job, I get it. However, you call me at a rather inappropriate time, I can't guarantee I'm going to be Sweetie McSchmoozie to you. Like when I just got Shortpants to shut the hell up and go to sleep (without Samuel L. Jackson's help thankyouverymuch). I might have sounded a little something like this minus the smile and perfectly coiffed hair:

Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah. June Cleaver, I am not.

In closing, to all the Acme Asshole Businesses out there - stop calling me without a legitimate reason. And if you perchance do happen to have a legitimate reason, I dare you to call me when my kid is actually asleep. I can't be held responsible for my actions, should such shenanigans by your company occur. Again. Dicks.

Ya heard?