Friday, December 4, 2015

I Need a Nap, a Xanax and a Margarita

Tiny Terrorist will be 3 on Sunday.
Boy Terrorist is 4 and Big Red will be 13 in just over a month.

Yes...that's her everyday sass
My babies are growing up.

I don't know whether to cry, throw a party or move out of the house.

I knew my experiences with the terrorists would be somewhat different because of their gender (one boy, one girl), but it didn't even occur to me the giant sea of difference I would experience between them and big red.

I feel like I'm living in the mind of bi-polar person.....on drugs 

This morning I got the full spectrum from cleaning up pee to making make-up pit stops.
Here's the summary of my morning (6:00AM - 8:00AM)

  • Tiny terrorist peed her pants - while standing next to the toilet....because she wanted me to lift her on to it and hold her toilet paper for her until she was ready to wipe. (she's fully capable of getting up there on her own - she does it 90% of the time.  She also has no problem pulling, holding and stuffing an entire roll of TP in the toilet on any other day) 

  • I had to explain for the 5,678th time to Boy Terrorist that no, he could not bring his nerf shot gun to school, then I had to explain that he also couldn't bring his nerf, not even if you hide it in your underpants.
  • Find shoes for both terrorists after an exhaustive 42 second search party was completed by the terrorists (the shoes were in the shoe box....where they are every morning for the last 2 years) 
  • Carry both terrorists to the car because they cannot walk they are just too exhausted and "If you love us you'll carry us" (courtesy of Boy terrorist)
  • Return to house after pulling out of driveway so big red cold retrieve her headband.....because no ponytail is complete without a big ass band of elastic strapped to your forehead.  (The door was locked...which just ruined it all...making a trip back to the car for keys and then back to the house was out of the question - commence pouting)
  • Big red notices that my make up isn't in the car and she has no make-up. (and OHMYGAWD...she has to have mascara and eyeliner because her "eyes are different sized" shit that's what she said)  So googly-eyes announces that this is "THE WORST MORNING EVER" 
  • I concede to stop by her fathers house so she can get make up to un-googly-eye herself.  We get make up and googly announces that all she has is bronzer and her face will be all brown and uneven and this really is "THE WORST MORNING EVER"   (Um, why does she even have bronzer...I don't even know what to do with bronzer)  Tears flow....
  • We show up at daycare and Tiny Terrorist informs me she is not going today....she wants to go to gymnastics.  Commence flopping out of car seat, flinging self on ground and generally being an asshole.  I explain to her that gymnastics is after daycare when the sun is getting ready to go to sleep.  Mercifully, she enters daycare with Boy terrorist with no other argument.
No actual "Googly-Eyes" - Shes absolutely beautiful
  • Back to googly eyes....shes in full blown teenager meltdown mode slamming my visor mirror, crying and mumbling about uneven eyes, splotchy skin and worst mornings ever.  I gave up...I drove across town to my office so she could use my make up then drove back across town to bring the now beautified un-googley-eyed big red to school. (I fought the urge to tell her her eyes still looked the same as they did at 6AM, just with more junk on them...)  
Crisis averted, all kids are safely in the care of somebody-fucking-else for the day.  I feel like I need a nap, a Xanax and a margarita. I really didn't think this whole future thing through.....