Here's the thing (and this is me and Beth Brown talking): I know I should be grateful that I have a babysitter who comes to our house to watch the two kids, and that my mother babysits, and that Chuck's mother and step-father babysit BUT fucking a, as I lie in bed on Sunday nights and imagine the week ahead I can't help but think of this—
That dude waving his hand? He's shouting, "Go on down to Frogmama's house! Make yourself at home! She won't be there!"
And I know I should be grateful that everyone who comes into my home is trustworthy (as far as I can tell, anyway) and probably isn't snooping through the bills I accidentally left out or taking inventory of the number of empty wine bottles in my recycling bin, but I can't help but feel like this as I allow the revolving set of people into my home each week*—
That dog with his head in my, er, the dog's butt? That's my mother-in-law as she rummages through my fridge and wonders why everything we have is organic. She raised Chuck on Hungry Man beef stew. Is there something wrong with that? Did he have to go and marry such a hippie?
That dog looking off to the right? That's Chuck's step-father, thinking of all the underwear that needs folding.
But hey, one down, four to go, right? Now let's see, who's coming tomorrow? Oh, right. The babysitter—
Which means that both kids will go into the tub immediately after she leaves. I know, I know, I'm such a scent-free, dye-free, hypo-allergenic hippie. (Have you seen the sodium count on those Hungry Man soups? The woman is a former nurse for frick's sake.)
P.S. In all Beth Brown alternate reality seriousness, my friend informed me that there's a woman named Beth Brown who is a writer, blogger, and artist. Just like me. Gasp! The one major difference? She is a paranormal investigator...just like Chuck. Double gasp!
Uncanny coincidence or another sign from beyond from the sea captain?
(Would it be overkill to do another mwhahahahahahaa here? Yah, I thought so.)
*Photo credit: Mother (fucking) Nature
About me: I'm 40 and just added a gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 7-year-old Junior, our 4-year-old Everett 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.