Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Ice cream fix

True confession time: I was into the chocolate ice cream before 11:30 today. Yes, 11:30 am. Why would an otherwise healthy person eat chocolate ice cream before lunch? Because we have no vodka in the house. 

It's that sort of morning.

We just returned from our walk around the neighborhood so that Gwennan could deliver her "I'm sorry" card to the babysitter. Brother is bemoaning the time change, by far the most traumatic thing in his life since circumcision. His whole life's schedule has been a wreck since 2 o'clock Sunday morning. When I declined to fix lunch at 10:30, Afton threw a fit involving peeing on our carpeted stairs and using the basil we potted together as a hammer throw.

I earned that ice cream.

The last spoonful hadn't dissolved on my tongue when I glanced out the window to check on my entirely too happy children only to find the little exhibitionists completely naked on top of the fort, well above the privacy fence, playing "go to the beach," the nudist beach apparently. {Anybody else notice that my sentences tend to run on when I'm frustrated? Tim has, I assure you.}

Why even bring this up? Everyone has these days, these "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" days. Gwennan, Carrick and Afton would probably tell you that they too deserve ice cream for putting up with their grumpy mother on a 5 day headache streak who insists that the babysitter was right, that daylight savings time is over, and that lunch must wait until closer to noon. Oh, and that you must pretend going to the beach with your clothes on, clearly an impossibility.

I write out this ridiculous day so that on another bad day, yours or mine, we can say, ah yes, we will get through this ludicrous day, might even laugh at it later.

I write it out so that when all you see are cute pictures of my girls playing or catch a gummy smile from my prince charming son or hear me talk about practicing yoga and baking stuff you barely have time to buy, you'll know that this momma is losing her mind plenty.
My momma promises this too shall pass. And I believe her. I even believe the people who tell me I'll miss it. I also think that maybe when my kids are teenagers and still driving me crazy that I might find some courage reading their preschool antics, even the not so cute ones.

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