Last night I started a post that began like this:
Editor’s Note: For those of you who prefer my lighter, less ballbusting topics, I’m PMSing this week and this inevitably leads me to become confrontational and bitchy.
I’ll be fine next week, and will go back to telling you how Wayne screams like a little girl whenever he sees the toilet overflowing. Not bitchy at all.
Nice start, right. You know with a beginning like that, rays of sunshine were not going to be flying out of my ass.
But yes, I am PMSing, and for some reason, this week my nerves are wound into a tight fist and I just want to haul off and punch someone in the stomach.
Yes, I tell it like it is. Yes, I’m honest with myself and others. And yes, I can accept the honesty when it’s directed at me.
But right now, if you even look at me the wrong way, I guarantee you will lose that eyeball.
I think it’s a combination of hormones, nerves about starting back in the nursing faculty on Thursday (’cause how will I blog if I’m writing riveting papers on the fine art of ass wiping), and lack of sugar (please throw chocolate at me!)
Below is part of the post I had written last night:
It’s not an option.
What? What the hell am I talking about, you say?
It’s not an option is my party line. That’s what my children will hear me say when they are doing something they aren’t supposed to, refusing to do something they are supposed to, and/or gearing up to mouth me off.
It’s not an option meaning, don’t even try it, kid.
I have a few friends who will complain to me that their children disrespect them by screaming such things as the ever hurtful “I hate you!”, “You’re a horrible mother!”, and “I can do whatever I want and you can’t stop me!”
I can’t relate to this. My kids don’t act out by yelling at me. No. It’s not because I’m lucky. It’s because…say it with me…it’s not an option.
…blah blah blah…is anybody still reading?
I know if I ever read a post like that, I’d either, 1. leave a snarky comment, 2. backtrack out of it so fucken fast, the sitemeter wouldn’t have registered my presence, and/or 3. leave a lovely comment about something completely unrelated to the post topic, like how pretty the blogger is or how much I love the colour scheme of the blog.
Because honestly, who the fuck do I think I am?
It sounds like I’m passing myself off as this expert mother who has perfect children.
As a matter of fact, I’m the mother who gets weekly phone calls from the school because my 12 year old is mighty skilled in the art of driving his teachers fucken nuts.
No, he’s not bad. He doesn’t graffiti the walls or beat up the other students.
But he just has this gift for getting under your skin. He starts off all sweet and “Can I clean the board for you, sir?”
And then, when the teacher is least expecting it, my son has organized the classroom into a “Save the Whales” rally. Except they’re in the classroom. Where there are no whales.
Suffice it to say, I’m pretty sure the teachers at his school pull straws to see who is going to be stuck with him in September.
So I’m not posting about my “it’s not an option” mantra.
Quite honestly, I have no idea what I’m going to post about. What can I write that won’t spur me into furious PMS ramblings?
I went to the zoo with my family this afternoon.
I thought this was a pretty safe topic.
We laughed at the monkeys.
We commented on the stink in the aviary.
And then while we were quietly admiring the camels (quietly admiring camels? Yes, we were), my 12 year old says, “Their buttholes are gross.”
To which the 7 year old replies, “They look like balls.”
To which the 14 year old says, “That’s ’cause they are balls.”
While I was marvelling at my children’s ability to turn a National Geographic moment into an SNL skit, the 12 year old who was walking with his eyes closed (yes, you read correctly), gets pushed into a tree by the 14 year old.
Pituitary gland is firing off many many hormones…wishing bad things…very very bad things…
I think I better take in a yoga class before I yank my pituitary gland out with my bare hands.