Where I tell Mother Nature to suck it.

It's been not exactly pleasant at our house this weekend. Or last weekend, for that matter. In fact, it's been akin to a houseful of teenage girls on their cycle being told that one of the members of One Direction (it hurts me to know that I know this crap) has gotten engaged - yeah, that bad.

Depending on where you get your information (and unfortunately, not everything on the interwebs is accurate. I KNOW! Who knew!?), there are two schools of thought regarding whether barometric pressure affects us humans.

Well, gang - I'm here to tell you - IT DOES.

Every time we have a weather change, Shortpants is a maniac. And not a maniac, maniac on the floor, dancing like he's never danced before, no no no... maniac as in he's as unstable as a wolf in a room full of sheep,

You'd think by now he knows what's going to happen when he tries this crap.

 as a Jenga tower in a room full of three year olds,

I don't even know what's going on here, but unless he's trying to move the blocks by osmosis,
 I'd say this is a Jenga Fail.

  as me when I've forgotten my Zoloft and I'm out of coffee.

Yes, I know this is Britney Spears. And it appears she has something caffeinated in her hand. However, we all know how well that worked out for her. Don't fret, I'm not about to shave my head. But I think I've rocked this facial expression a time or seventyjillion.

Here in the merry ol' land of Kansas, Friday was hands-down GORGEOUS. 70ish, light breeze, warm sun, the perfectest perfect spring day. Saturday morning? Overcast. Chilly. Okay, not the end of the world, it's spring after all, not the most predictable season. UNTIL IT STARTED SNOWING. <commence end of the world music> 

We woke up to an inch or two of snow. Which will melt off by today because the high is almost 60. Long story short - I know, too late - the shortest person in this house has been a hot mess, and I am out of junk food to soothe me.

Admittedly, that's a good thing, but damn, kid. You make this getting healthy shit HARD.

So, weather changes, compounded by me forgetting to charge the iPad, equals a whole lot of plans getting canceled. I didn't even mention the barfs on Friday night because that was minor in the cluster that was this weekend. Thankfully, there was not a full moon - oh wait, that was last weekend! 

In sum, Mother Nature could use a Prozac enema. Or hormone therapy. Clearly, she's menopausal. Or stuck in the terrible twos. 

*In searching Google Images for a picture of Mother Nature, everything I found were these absolutely beautiful, ethereal women or these sweet, soft grandmotherly types. I find that very difficult to believe, unless it is a parallel to the exquisite Tom Hiddleston playing Loki. Regardless, she needs to get her poop in a group and stop making life miserable for everyone. Agreed? I thought so.*

Where I compare Parenting to a Video Game.

My son is four. He's a lot of things, but mainly, he's a four year old boy. Do you know what that means?

He can be kind of an asshole.

Yep. I said it. And I mean it. I know a lot of bloggers have gotten flack lately for calling their spawn the little a-holes that WE ALL KNOW they can be. Every critter that has taken a breath on this planet has the capacity to be a jerkface at one point or another. Even non-breathing things. Like my garden that refused to grow. ASSHOLE GARDEN.

Shortpants is four. Being a jerk comes with the territory.

Example 1: "THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANTED EVEN THOUGH I JUST POINTED TO IT AND GAVE YOU MY ASSENT TO OPEN IT AND EVEN IF I DID WANT IT POINT TWO SIX SECONDS AGO I DON'T WANT IT NOW AND WHY DON'T YOU GET THAT YOU STUPID WOMAN?"

Example 2: "WHAT DO YOU MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAN I HAVE TO WASH MY HAIR! YOU SAID TAKE A BATH NOT WASH MY HAIR! THIS IS SUCH BULLSHIT. NO - WAIT - WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOING DON'T WASH MY HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Example 3: "NO I DON'T WANT TO GO OUTSIDE EVEN THOUGH IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY. I'D REALLY RATHER WAIT UNTIL THE GUY WITH THE ROAD MAINTAINER COMES TO GET ALL OF THE GRAVEL AND SHIT OUT OF THE GUTTERS AND THENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Tell me what part of those three examples doesn't scream asshole to you.  I'll wait right here. Patiently.

Four year olds are geniuses at pushing the almighty buttons of the parent. "What, you thought I was done with that glass-shattering screech when I was two? Check this out! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHH!" Button pushed. Successfully, I might add. I'm waiting to hear "Oh! I'ma Mario!" every time this, or something similar happens. Like two weeks after I needed a plumber to take the toilet apart because someone WHO MIGHT BE A FOUR YEAR OLD ASSHOLE flushed two bathtub toys, a washcloth, and a disposable razor - flushed God knows what because I'm still paying off the plumber from the first time and thank God I have two toilets and SWEET JESUS WHY DID I BUY THE TOILET THAT CAN FLUSH 10 GOLF BALLS WHEN I OBVIOUSLY NEEDED ONE THAT COULD FLUSH BATHTUB TOYS AND WASHCLOTHS AND A DISPOSABLE RAZOR?!

Do I hear "Oh! I'ma Mario!"? More like "LEVEL UP."

Shit.

She can be taught! Installment Uno!

I decided in the middle of my funk today that I was going to start a weekly list of all the things I learned throughout the week to make the crap salad I was force fed the last few days all rainbows and unicorns and silver line-y and all that. Note: this list is compiled entirely from the kids I work with. (I am a therapist at a community mental health center and I work primarily with kids. My head spins all.day.long. I pink puffy heart my job.)

We'll see how this goes. Something tells me probably nowhere near I intended. As with most of my ideas. I digress. As usual. Anyway.

1.  I need a haircut really badly. He (and he's five, mind you) also told me I might consider "Put some brown on your hair that isn't brown, Miss Kelly. Hair is supposed to be all one color. Like mine." Mmmhmm. Thanks, kid.

2.  I look like a Queen! Also? If I would put a crown "right there" I would look "just like a queen! Not a princess. Princesses are young like me. And you're old. So you would be a Queen." Awesome.

3.  I'm annoying and I get on people's nerves. I KNOW! I gasped just as loud as you just did! "Miss Kelly, since we're practicing telling our feelings in a way that isn't hurtful? I just wanted to let you know that sometimes you're really annoying and you get on my nerves. Is that how I'm supposed to do it? Did I hurt your feelings? I hope not, but you really can! And do! But you're kind of awesome." Um, thanks? And no. And not really, but this is kind of awkward, and thanks. I know.

4.  Pieces of paper don't mean you're smart. "Miss Kelly, I think I'm smarter than you are, and I'm only 6. I know you have dergrees and stuff, but I know a lot." Teach me, Obi Wan.

5.  I don't color worth a crap. "You missed a spot." "You can see your marker lines!" "Did you take art in school?" Yes. "Are you sure?!" Yes. "Really?!" "TYRONE'S SHIRT IS NOT RED AND BLUE IT IS ORANGE AND BLUE! I THOUGHT YOU HAVE KIDS! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO KNOW THIS!" Everyone's a critic.

6.  I have no taste. "Miss Kelly, you sure got a lotta crap in your office." Michael, I'd like for you to say that again with appropriate language and in a way that isn't hurtful. "BUT YOU DO! THERE'S CRAP EVERYWHERE IN HERE! I MEAN STUFF! THERE'S STUFF EVERYWHERE IN HERE! Is that better?" Um, kinda.

7.  Expect the unexpected. "Miss Kelly, I need to go potty." Okay, let's go! "Oh, I mean I needed to go potty. I did go potty." On my couch? "Kinda. And kinda on the floor. And in my shoe." Siiiiiiiiiiiiiighhhh...

Gee! I wonder what sorts of life lessons will be lobbed at my face like a knuckleball next week?

Or in about five minutes. Since Shortpants is ninja quiet...

Where I Need Smacked - With a 2x4

I'm having one of those days where the minutes are creeping by and I have nothing to do, and all I want is to be entertained and no one is posting on Facebook, and I'm not getting any new emails, and my child is keeping himself occupied (!!!), and no one is texting me or calling me, and wait...

I'm seriously complaining that the weekend is going slow and that no one is bugging the everloving crap out of me?

Someone slap me.

Hard.

P.S. That up there? Full of lies. There's always something to do. Like laundry, or dishes, or more laundry. If I was independently wealthy, I'd have a laundry boy. Or girl. I'm not picky. I'll even wash. Just fold and put away for me and I'll worship the ground you walk on.

Chasing that elusive "Me Time"

Oh Kelly, quit your complaining.... you have ONE kid who is generally in bed by 8:00. What's the problem?

The problem is I'm exhausted. Therefore, Shortpants and I have the same bedtime lately. Well, I'm in bed at a decent enough time, but asleep? Pfft.

Our day starts in the dark. I hit snooze until I can't squeeze anymore minutes out of "Okay, if I don't leave in X minutes, I'm going to be late", stumble to the shower, while in the shower decide to wear pants so I don't have to waste time shaving, get out, throw some gunk in my hair to make it look like I meant it to be that way, attempt to conceal the bags and sags and zits, and then... head to his room.

This is where it is different every day. Some days I hear happy jabbering (Yay! This morning is going to be eeeeeeeeeeeeeasy peasy!). Some days I hear the cutest snoring on the planet (This could prove interesting. I have a 50/50 shot as to how he's going to wake up - smiles or screams. Crap.). Some days I have heard him hollering way before my alarm was ORIGINALLY set to go off - and let's be completely honest here - I stick my nose in his door and take a huge sniff to make sure it's not pants related before I say "Just a second!" and go take my 3 minute shower.

I know what you're thinking. Really, I do. Because I think the same thing. But if you think a tornado has anything on my kid, you're wrong. Very, very wrong.

Also? Shortpants is on the Autism Spectrum - on the severe end. He doesn't speak, and he still sleeps in his crib. I know he's four. That's another post.

Usually (key word right there), I say "Good morning, Sunshine! Let's get ready for schoooooooool!" (because THAT's not annoying first thing in the morning) and he'll head to the door in his pajamas and 8 lb pullup. It's a good sign though, because getting him dressed shouldn't be too much of a fight. Half of that is managed because we still have temperatures that are equivalent to living in a volcano, so we don't have to deal with socks. Ask me later. I don't have the strength.

Anyway, he's either cooperative or he's not. Duh. Just like any other kid. And then we figure out what we want for breakfast (cereal or cereal - in a cup, because milk can't touch it - and that's fine, because it's commute-friendly), and THEN? It's meds time.

Holy Hand Grenades, I wish this wasn't an option, but life pre-meds? Neither my heart nor my brain will consider it for a second. I think he understands these help, but he hates taking them, unless they're covered with butterscotch pudding or strawberry yogurt. And even then, it's a chase around the house, and lots of attractive begging and pleading from me, and "Just one bite!" gets said about a thousand times, and the mouth will open! And the spoon gets shoved in! And then... well... the last couple of days we've figured out that we have two options - spit or swallow. And spitting has been the favorite lately, much to my dismay. But there are times that I'm pleasantly surprised, like today, for example.... he's been a complete trainwreck all morning, but I didn't even have to ask him to take his medicine, he stood there like a little baby bird waiting for his mama to give him something to eat. (Aww.) That's the last thing he's been cooperative about this morning, but hey - one is better than none, right?

We get in the car, and head down the road - still in the dark. We have a 2.5 hour round trip commute. Yeah. Awesome. And we listen to a combination of Phineas and Ferb, The Backyardigans, Laurie Berkner, and thrash metal on the way. (Well, after an hour of those three, my brain is bleeding, S.I.M.P. SQUIRRELS IN MY PANTS is permanently stuck in my head, and I might as well have listened to thrash metal all the way as much as my head is throbbing.). He goes to school or daycare, and I get back on the highway to go the last 25ish minutes to work. Which is when I turn on usually a country station and daydream about Blake Shelton. Or Luke Bryan. Or Jake Owen. Oh, Jake Owen.... you're so hot....

I digress. Off to work, save the world, try to remember who is picking Shorty up (because no daycare will stay open past 6, and when do I get off work? You guessed it.), and head home. Monday through Thursday, I drive home alone. Yes, I guess that's technically "me time", but since I have to get home and I have to drive - my definition of "me time" doesn't include any "have tos". Get home, dinner, bath, bed, collapse.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Ideas? Thanks in advance.

Love,

A Mom who would love to actually know what's on tv this season, or what's going on in the world, or have a hobby, or know what other adults do past 830 at night.

Awesome/Suck... Not to be confused with Face/Off.

Garage sales where you make BANK.

So, okay, the garage sale didn't so much suck - as I twiddled my fingers a la Mr. Burns and counted my Benjamins, er, Lincolns (dolla dolla bill, y'all), but the getting ready for the damned thing? Please find the following list of situations I'd rather find myself in rather than doing that again. Ever.

1. Have bamboo skewers inserted under my fingernails.
2. Be hung by my toenails (a threat commonly uttered by my Grandpa, and terrified me as a child. I now know better, but still, that would definitely suck.)
3. Poke myself in the eye with a fork.
4. Get tased, Bro!
5. Be forced to watch a marathon of Calliou episodes. (Or Super Why. Make it stop. Please.)
6. Learn that coffee is a figment of my imagination.
7. Have my ex-husband move in next door.

Have I made my point yet? Getting ready for this garage sale was like being served the world's largest shit sandwich and being forced to eat every bite before dessert. First of all, there were literally hundreds of pieces of itty bitty kid clothes and toys to arrange artfully (evidently just throwing shit in a bunch of boxes and letting people go through them isn't okay. Who knew.) and it was eleventybillion degrees with infinity plus one percent humidity. That, and every mosquito in the tri-county area was trying to get in my pants. (No lie. I have a ridiculous amount of skeeter bites on unexposed skin. Little fucking perverts.) I'm not sure exactly how they stuck onto my leg to even bite me, as I was unsure if I was sweating or someone sprayed me down with the garden hose. Oh, wait. I smelled like pickled skunk ass, so it definitely wasn't the hose.

Anyway, we decided to put things out the night before, since it wasn't supposed to rain, but as much dew that covered all of my stuff, it might as well have. Whatever. I wasn't going to do shit at 4 am but sleep, hopefully, so I wanted to get as much done the night prior as possible. It. Was. Miserable. And then I forgot to set my alarm clock. And then my mom left the money bag outside while we took a short nap. (None is missing, thank you citizens of my tiny town for being so fucking rad!) And I still have a shit ton of nauseatingly cute onesies and crap left, so there very well may be a part deux... especially since I made enough for a car payment and a half today. Can I get a wut wut? (Oh, it's not cool to do that anymore? Are you also insinuating I should stop doing the sprinkler and cabbage patch when I dance? Damn it. No, I don't know how to Dougie, in case you were wondering.)

And because no day is complete without something to say WTF about, I might have broken my finger. At a garage sale. Who manages to do that? Me. I swear, I'm the Napoleon Dynamite of Indiana Street.

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?