1. Wow. The kids are being really good today. They must have sniffed out that I'm having a high-blood sugar psycho crazy day, because that can be the ONLY damn reason why Sutt hasn't asked what his "electronics time" limit is today. And Bellamy brushed her hair and she never brushes her hair without a fight. You know, we have really great kids. People tell us that all the time. But I mostly just yell at them and say things like "DON'T ACT LIKE THAT, YOU WEREN'T RAISED IN A BARN!" and "SANTA DOESN'T COME SEE ASSHOLES!" and "WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A JOB AND A HOME OF YOUR OWN YET? YOU'RE A SMART KID!" Now Belly is hitting puberty and next thing I know she'll probably have a stoner boyfriend and a tramp stamp she forged my signature to get. SHIT. THINGS CAN ONLY GO DOWNHILL FROM HERE. CODE RED CODE RED. And I yelled at Sutt in Kroger yesterday for fighting with his sister over cookies. I'M A TERRIBLE MOTHER. WHEN HE ENDS UP IN PRISON FOR MONEY LAUNDERING AND EMBEZZLEMENT (because he's really good at math) AND THEN KILLS SOMEONE WITH A SHIV MADE OUT OF A TOOTHBRUSH WHEN THEY TRY TO MAKE HIM THEIR PRISON BITCH, DATELINE WILL INTERVIEW HIM AND HE'LL BE ALL LIKE "I WOULD HAVE BEEN FINE IF MY MOM HADN'T CONVINCED ME AS A CHILD THAT I HAD BEEN BORN WITH A THIRD TESTICLE THAT HAD TO BE REMOVED" (Note-- in my defense, I made that lie up to teach him a lesson when he accused Belly of the birthmark on her stomach being a third nipple. I feel completely justified in doing so. BUT STILL.) I'm screwed.
2. I need a job. Like, FOR REAL, YO. This whole staying home with the kids thing off-and-on for the past decade has been great, but I am LOSING MY MIND. I NEED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. I CANNOT WORK FROM HOME ANYMORE. What the hell am I gonna do? I'm 38 years old. All the jobs I want to do (psychic, exotic dancer, pet therapist) are out of my reach. MY PARENTS LIED WHEN THEY SAID I COULD BE ANYTHING I WANTED TO BE IF I ONLY PUT MY MIND TO IT. Shit. That means I should start telling my kids things like "Well, you can be anything you want to be within reason, taking into consideration your time constraints, beliefs, physical shape, and talents and natural abilities." WHY DIDN'T MY DAD EVER TELL ME, "Honey, you'll never be a nun"? It's SO APPEALING. I mean, I really like sex, so I don't want to give that up, and I'm not really down with being married to Jesus, but IT SOUNDS LIKE SUCH A PEACEFUL LIFE AND I HATE THAT NOBODY EVER MADE ME AWARE THAT I DO, INDEED, HAVE LIMITATIONS (like be a nun, even though I'm also not Catholic). And what if I had wanted to be a model? I'm not tall enough or pretty enough to be a model, but MY MOM AND DAD NEVER SAID THAT. THEY SAID I COULD DO ANYTHING. THEY FUCKING LIED. Shit. Being a parent sucks. It's hard. I wonder if they thought it was hard. Maybe it wasn't hard for them, maybe it's just hard for me. SHIT SHIT SHIT. THANKS FOR BEING BIG, FAT LIARS, MOM AND DAD, AND FOR NOT SQUASHING MY HOPES AND DREAMS WHILE I WAS STILL YOUNG AND FRAGILE ENOUGH FOR IT TO BE EFFECTIVE. AND FOR NOT TELLING ME THAT PARENTING IS HARD AS SHIT.
3. What in the HELL are the dogs barking at now? Oh, geez. It's the Indian people who live down the street out walking. THEY GO WALKING ABOUT 20 TIMES A DAY AND THEY ARE ALWAYS WEAR FLANNEL PAJAMA PANTS AND T-SHIRTS. What IS it with the flannel pajama pants? It's July in Georgia. The heat index is 118. PUT ON SOME DAMN SHORTS. Hell, go naked. I DON'T CARE. Wait, I must care or I wouldn't be so upset about the flannel pants. AM I JUDGEMENTAL? SHIT. I try all the time to stress to the kids that you should not be judgemental, and now I'm being judgemental. Fuck. But really? Flannel? Oh.....damnit. Sutton sleeps in fleece pants all the time. When he complains he's hot I tell him "TAKE OFF THE STUPID FLEECE PANTS, IT'S JULY IN GEORGIA, FOR GOODNESS SAKES" but he still wears them. Maybe I'm not judgemental. Maybe I'm just smarter than everybody else. Wait-- is that judgemental? I DON'T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TEACH MY KIDS TO BE GOOD PEOPLE IF I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF I AM ONE? But I'm still hung up on the pajama pants. The Indian people seem pretty conservative, so WHY WOULD THEY WALK AROUND THE NEIGHBORHOOD IN THEIR PAJAMAS IN THE FIRST PLACE? That's not a conservative thing to do. They give me dirty looks when I go to the mailbox in workout pants and a sports bra, so what's up with the pajamas? And why do the dogs only bark at the Indian people. OH GOD, MY DOGS MUST BE RACIST. Shit. Is that my fault? How did that happen? I TURNED MY DOGS INTO RACISTS AM I'M NOT EVEN A RACIST MYSELF. THERE'S NO WAY I CAN TEACH MY KIDS TO BE GOOD PEOPLE IF I ACCIDENTALLY MADE MY DOGS INTO RACISTS.
4. Where the FUCK am I going to get a recorder? Sutt needs a recorder for school and I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT A RECORDER LOOKS LIKE. And WHY does he need a recorder in the first place? He doesn't WANT a recorder. He doesn't even know what a recorder is (I asked). That's a REALLY STUPID THING TO PUT ON A SCHOOL SUPPLY LIST. The schools here are so good but they are RIDICULOUS. I wouldn't be surprised if the supply list didn't ask you to get all your kids' shit monogrammed. I'm a good Southern Girl who loves a monogram as much as the next lady, but DAMN, there's a limit. DOES EVERYTHING YOU OWN REALLY NEED TO BE MONOGRAMMED? I don't think so. And for the record, I wore a monogrammed sweater to get my third-grade school photo made back in 1985 and I NEARLY GOT BEAT UP FOR BEING SUCH A NERD. THANKS, MOM. THANKS FOR RUINING MY LIFE WITH A MONOGRAMMED SWEATER. But the recorder... Sutt is going to hate the recorder and suck at playing it. I wonder if I should go ahead and warn him that he's going to suck at playing the recorder? Like, "SUTT, DO NOT GET YOUR HOPES AND DREAMS UP ABOUT BEING A PROFESSIONAL RECORDER PLAYER BECAUSE IT'S NOT GONNA HAPPEN. IT JUST WON'T. LET IT GO, BABY, LET IT GO." I don't want him to look back at me someday and think I was a liar (besides the third ball thing...and the shrimp vaginas.....and, well, actually lots of other stuff).
5. WHY ARE THOSE DAMN BLUEBIRDS CONSTANTLY PECKING ON OUR WINDOWS? I have never had this problem. Are they possessed? Are they dangerous? Should I be afraid of them? I've never been afraid of birds before but I kind of feel like this is an omen. There could be a zombie apocalypse on the way or, at the very least a wildfire. Were there any pecking bluebirds in the first season of "The Walking Dead"? I CAN'T REMEMBER AND THIS COULD BE IMPORTANT. If it's a wildfire, and you use your garden hose to help fight it, does the state reimburse you for all the water costs you rack up while being an amateur firefighter? That only seems fair. Or maybe it's the county, since I think the water is a county-wide system. Maybe it's my Dad sending a message to say hello. WHAT IF MY DAD IS SAYING HELLO AND I THINK I'M FIGHTING A WILDFIRE AND DEMAND COUNTY REIMBURSEMENT WHEN THE ISSUE IS ACTUALLY A PARANORMAL VISITATION INSTEAD OF A WILDFIRE? I would probably recognize a wildfire though. I would probably be able to figure it out if the damn birds would quit pecking on the windows and waking me up. I'm so tired.
I'm gonna stop here.
Can you imagine what it's like to live in my head? B says all the time that he can't (and he doesn't want to either). Sometimes he'll be sitting on the sofa staring off into space and I'll ask, "What are you thinking about, Honey?" and he says, "Oh, I wasn't thinking at all. I was just sitting here." AND I'M PRETTY SURE HE'S TELLING THE TRUTH. I don't know what it's like to have an empty head, mine is always racing, racing, racing.
They should really make good meds for this, but I haven't found any yet.