Life is filled with bumps. Lots and lots of bumps.
Like when you have been in Atlanta for almost 3 weeks and you just cannot get your internet connection to work properly…no matter how many hours your husband – who possesses a degree in computer science – spent trying to fix it.
Bump.
Like when you go to dunkin’ donuts and place your order at the drive-thru, but when you pull up to the window, they ask you to repeat your order from start to finish because there’s ZERO communication between the person taking the orders and the person filling them. (they need some lessons in efficiency) (and I need some lessons in patience)(they also need to stop taking personal cell phone calls while they are working) (official dunkin’ donuts boycott is in effect)
Bump.
Like when you get kicked out of Victoria’s Secret because your kids are playing the penis game.
Bump.
Like when you find the cremains of your Grandpa Lou in the drawer beside your bed.
Bump.
Like no matter how much time I take to dry and iron my hair it still grows like a bloody chia pet with the first step out the door.
Bump.
Like when you wake your kids super early to get them up and ready to go to school on your first day as a single mom and you shower your son who played baseball yesterday (and won his first game!) and feed your three picky breakfast eaters at least 3 different breakfasts and race out of the house to get to school on time only to have someone stop you on your way in to tell you that SCHOOL IS CANCELED. A mothereffing sewage problem.
Bumpity bump bump.
So, there’s no rest for the weary. Or, Dr. Jones, there’s no time for love work. Or better yet, there’s no chance for any sort of down time after a busy weekend of squishing my three nieces who came up (down?) from Nashville for Miss Isabella’s 4th birthday that involved pizza and cake (yes, I DID let myself break my no bread no pasta no dessert rule for a piece of cake because, hello! My baby turned 4! And also? COSTCO CAKE) and many (too many) hours at Chuck E. Cheese’s, dressed in princess dresses, obviously.
After all, it’s where a kid can be a kid. And a mom can, well, pop some xanax and encourage her children to stop dropping their coins in the “ooh, let’s win the most tickets!†games that will win them nothing but laffy taffys and plastic fake vomit (seriously, does anyone buy that shit?) and plastic bracelets that will break after 47 seconds in the car on the way home and actually enjoy themselves with some skee-ball or pinball or Super Mario Kart or Deal or No Deal.
So, there’s no chance of spending the morning with Rachel and the youngins at the children’s museum because Josh and Emily are too old for it (and you know what that means “I’m SOOOOOOOOOO bored. I want to go home. I hate it here. This is for babies†all the livelong day)
So now I have to go and watch two little girls perform an encore to their lovely Christmas fashion show.
(that’s called a silver lining, by the way) (until they are finished and then it’s called laundry)
and go do some more squishing.
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