I'm Just Not That Into You
Not today, at least. It's not you, it's me. Or something. Whatever.
It may have been the birthday party chaos and the drama leading up to it. The fact only one of my siblings could be bothered to show up (but one of the ditchers sent her obnoxious 3-year-old to tag along with my parents, of course); the fact Moosebaby's other aunt couldn't make it due to a very important girls' weekend! she was attending with a friend, but she still sent her stupidass husband (Ben's brother) along with their two children (who were not allowed out of their father's field of vision the whole time out of his fear they would be swallowed whole by my ghetto cats or stabbed by my psycho firstborn--you know he could snap any second); the fact Ben's grandmother had to bring her loser-ass 40-year-old son along because his baby mama opted to give him some visitation time with his 2-year-old that afternoon (meaning the little darling was being send to hang with grandma because mommy needed a free sitter). There were so many damn kids there under the age of 3, I barely had time to pay any attention to my own. And it was HIS fucking party, dammit.
Ah, well. HE seemed to have a lovely time in spite of the chaos. He ate his weight in sugar and got to be hosed off in the tub (his favorite place next to the dinner table and/or his bed) afterward.
But yesterday...ugh. I needed a day to recover, but such is not the case when one's hyperactive oldest child is awake at the ass-crack of dawn and makes enough noise to wake his brother and the dead. And Dad is moderately hungover himself and not interested in doing much more than paying close attention to the sofa all day. And it's gray and cold and the forecast is calling for rain ALL. DAY. LONG.
Here, Jesus. Take the wheel. I quit.
And it especially doesn't help when the hyperactive oldest child is a fucking attention whore. I love Bob--I do--but Jesus tits, it is EXHAUSTING trying to meet his emotional needs on a daily basis. I always think of that scene from "Beaches," the one where Cece (Bette Midler)'s mother is telling her "I can't pay any more attention to you" and explaining everyone leaves her because she sucks the life out of them with her need for constant attention. That's how Bob makes me feel. I CAN'T pay any more attention to him. I spent time with him yesterday, playing in the sandbox, playing catch in the backyard, going to Target (I even let him push the cart), took him to the park, and it STILL wasn't enough to keep him from moping around the house looking all forlorn and sad half the afternoon. It's enough to drive me to drink, if booze didn't have so many damn calories.
So I needed a good night's sleep by the end of the day yesterday. And I didn't get it, because of the fucking cats. Seems it's not enough to give them the run of the house all night--they want to sleep in MY BED on top of ME. And if access to such position is denied, they will cry and whine and meow at the door all fucking night until I get up and open the door, and then they will take turns crowding me until I wake up and propel them from the bed. Plus it was too damn hot in the bedroom because Ben thinks it's going to put us into bankruptcy if we set the thermostat 5 degrees cooler. And my allergies are out of control.
So yeah...I'm not a happy camper this morning.
At least my baby was in a snuggly mood this morning. He was all hugs and kisses and smiles and giggles. If he keeps it up, I might forgive him for turning one. Maybe. Eventually.
It may have been the birthday party chaos and the drama leading up to it. The fact only one of my siblings could be bothered to show up (but one of the ditchers sent her obnoxious 3-year-old to tag along with my parents, of course); the fact Moosebaby's other aunt couldn't make it due to a very important girls' weekend! she was attending with a friend, but she still sent her stupidass husband (Ben's brother) along with their two children (who were not allowed out of their father's field of vision the whole time out of his fear they would be swallowed whole by my ghetto cats or stabbed by my psycho firstborn--you know he could snap any second); the fact Ben's grandmother had to bring her loser-ass 40-year-old son along because his baby mama opted to give him some visitation time with his 2-year-old that afternoon (meaning the little darling was being send to hang with grandma because mommy needed a free sitter). There were so many damn kids there under the age of 3, I barely had time to pay any attention to my own. And it was HIS fucking party, dammit.
Ah, well. HE seemed to have a lovely time in spite of the chaos. He ate his weight in sugar and got to be hosed off in the tub (his favorite place next to the dinner table and/or his bed) afterward.
But yesterday...ugh. I needed a day to recover, but such is not the case when one's hyperactive oldest child is awake at the ass-crack of dawn and makes enough noise to wake his brother and the dead. And Dad is moderately hungover himself and not interested in doing much more than paying close attention to the sofa all day. And it's gray and cold and the forecast is calling for rain ALL. DAY. LONG.
Here, Jesus. Take the wheel. I quit.
And it especially doesn't help when the hyperactive oldest child is a fucking attention whore. I love Bob--I do--but Jesus tits, it is EXHAUSTING trying to meet his emotional needs on a daily basis. I always think of that scene from "Beaches," the one where Cece (Bette Midler)'s mother is telling her "I can't pay any more attention to you" and explaining everyone leaves her because she sucks the life out of them with her need for constant attention. That's how Bob makes me feel. I CAN'T pay any more attention to him. I spent time with him yesterday, playing in the sandbox, playing catch in the backyard, going to Target (I even let him push the cart), took him to the park, and it STILL wasn't enough to keep him from moping around the house looking all forlorn and sad half the afternoon. It's enough to drive me to drink, if booze didn't have so many damn calories.
So I needed a good night's sleep by the end of the day yesterday. And I didn't get it, because of the fucking cats. Seems it's not enough to give them the run of the house all night--they want to sleep in MY BED on top of ME. And if access to such position is denied, they will cry and whine and meow at the door all fucking night until I get up and open the door, and then they will take turns crowding me until I wake up and propel them from the bed. Plus it was too damn hot in the bedroom because Ben thinks it's going to put us into bankruptcy if we set the thermostat 5 degrees cooler. And my allergies are out of control.
So yeah...I'm not a happy camper this morning.
At least my baby was in a snuggly mood this morning. He was all hugs and kisses and smiles and giggles. If he keeps it up, I might forgive him for turning one. Maybe. Eventually.
posted by Mitzi Green at 7:59 AM
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