About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Did they ever determine how many licks, dammit?
I haven't been to my blog for a week, and I can't even say where I've been exactly. Somewhere between my elbow and asshole I guess.
Caring for two children has turned my brain to absolute mush. I don't chew my food. Cutting my toenails feels like a luxury. I can't speak anymore. My brother Ted and his girlfriend Angela come out "Ed and Tangela." I tell Junior to wash his teeth and brush his face. I wake up with clenched fists.
Wait, no, that's wrong. I don't wake up—because I never sleep. Coordinating nap times between two kids is a feat I haven't been able to accomplish. And on the mornings Junior sleeps until 8 am, Diddly is up at 6:30 am, and vice versa. Or the nights that Diddly manages to sleep a 7-hour stretch, Junior wakes up screaming five times because his stuffed bear is tangled up in the sheets and HE CAN'T FIND IT PLEASE MOMMY WHERE IS MY BEAR?
You know that famous question, How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop? So over that. I like to ask How many layers of concealer does it take to cover Mrs. Mullet's freaken under-eye circles?
I'm not complaining. I'm really not. I just never imagined it would be this much work. When one kid's pooping, the other is falling off the couch. When one is hungry, the other needs his hand taken out of the light socket.
And we haven't even started solids yet. You know what happens when you introduce the butternut squash and peas.
I do manage to get a break here and there, between Chuck, my mother and the mailman. But getting a break feels very much like the time between boxing rounds when your trainer shoots you in the face with water, wipes away the blood and shoves you back in the ring.
Get back in there! Now!
And sometimes getting a break actually makes things worse because you step off the ride for a day and whoah, all those brain cells that started to regroup and heal get rocketed back into the frying pan and suddenly it's all exploding pops! and snaps! and you can hear them screaming "Omigawd we're dying all over again."
Maybe I should, um, go to bed now. Go pet my withered, fragile brain cells while I have a few minutes of quiet.
There, there. There, there.