My kids are home this week. After I realized what a job Band Back Together was going to be (and how freaking BORED they are with me), I enrolled the two smallest ones in preschool. Plus, that gives me ample time to sit on my ass and watch cactus videos. Those cacti are a laugh a minute!
Anyhow, for some strange reason, my preschool teacher decides once every six months or so to go on vacation. (I call bullshit) Then, the crotch parasites are home with everyone’s favorite Aunt Becky. Everyone, of course, but my small crotch parasites who are bored after two minutes of looking at my face. It sorta goes like this:
9:17 (AB): “Hey guys, let’s COLOR a PICTURE!”
9:18 (Alex and Amelia): “WE’RE DONE MAMA.”
9:20 (AB): “Let’s play a game called, “Make Mama a Martini!”
9:20 (Alex and Amelia): “NO.”
9:21 (AB): “How about, “let’s take a nap!” that’s a GREAT game!”
9:22 (Alex and Amelia): “That’s bullshit!”
9:22 (AB): *headdesk*
See, I’m just not cut out for playing games with toddlers for more than twelve seconds. And it’s approximately eleventy-billion degrees out now, which means I can’t boot them out the door to “play” and lock it behind them. Which is, I’m pretty sure, how my parents handled ages 2-18.
(come to think of it, perhaps I shouldn’t follow my parents lead)
So now I have two days left of “entertaining the children” and am about ready to sell them to the Hare Krishna’s because, well, I think they take kids and shave them and put them into wee orange robes. If not, they should.
When my preschool teacher gets back on Monday, I’m planning on tongue-kissing her. Or perhaps not. Anything to make her want to watch my children again. Because I think they’re sharpening their Play-Doh knives into shivs to attack me for ruining summer. I only hope that it takes them until Tuesday.
Until then, I’ll be counting down the minutes. And praying each one isn’t the one that brings me to my dramatic death-by-Play-Doh-knife.
I wrote this on The Stir. It’s about Tattooed Moms. Because obviously.