Dishes are done, man

Dishes are done, man

Oh, the blogging I wanted to do today. I mean, when you have this much “funny” and “witty” and “sheer genius” pumping through your bloodstream 24/7, you need an outlet, you know what I’m sayin’?

But here it is, 11 p.m., and I am just now finishing a day of working, and an evening of taking care of the kids, and helping Zan do his book report (because, you know, if there’s one thing 6-year-old kids who are spending all day, five days per week, cooped up in a classroom for the first time in their short little lives need, it’s fucking homework and book reports … and, yes, I know I’m cursing, but I have to pretend in front of my son that I think homework is a GREAT IDEA! and SO MUCH FUN!, so guess what, Internet? You get to bear the brunt of my displaced hostility about the whole homework thing! You’re welcome!), and putting both kids to bed, and emptying the dishwasher, and doing the dishes, and taking the trash down to the curb — to include an assload of big, bulky, shit-we’re-getting-rid-of stuff from the basement — and so what you get instead of my special brand of world-class blogging is me ranting like a pissy little bitch about stuff that really isn’t that big of a deal, and, again: You’re welcome!

The best I could come up with was this picture, which I snapped at approximately the same moment that I heard what sounded like my daughter crying and calling out for me, and I swear to Christ, we have the kids’ monitors on every single moment of every single night except, without fail, on those occasions when they actually do wake up and are having a problem and do need Mommy and/or Daddy (to include that time a couple years ago when, just before I climbed into bed, I went to check on Zan, who was absolutely sound asleep, which was great, except something didn’t smell quite right, and as I got closer to him, something didn’t look quite right, and did he spill something in his bed, or is he bleeding, or, wait, no, sweet mother of god, he vomited in his sleep and has been rolling around in it for who knows how the hell long, and it’s a good thing we always, always, ALWAYS have his video monitor on … except, of course, on the night he hosed his bed down with puke and didn’t even wake up).

So I dashed up the stairs, where my stuffed up, sore-throat-having daughter was crying, and had apparently been doing so for long enough that she was a teary, snot-filled, dry-heaving mess. After a few minutes of holding her up in front of the toilet after she informed me she thought she was going to throw up, I got her settled down and back to sleep without any vomiting … but she’s sick, and if ever you’re on a game show, and the host asks “How many days of pre-school does it take for a 4-year-old who hasn’t been sick in months to suddenly develop a full-blown cold inside of two hours?,” the answer is “Five.” (And if you win the game with that answer, I expect to be compensated.)

And there’s the sound I love oh-so-much … the sound of a baby monitor broadcasting the pathetic cries of a sick child who drifts in and out of sleep all night, occasionally crying out, which simultaneously makes me feel terrible for the sick child and makes me wish I was completely deaf.

Nothing like following a long day with a long night, am I right?

Well, at least dumping it all on you has made me feel a little bit better. Thanks, Internet. Good night.

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