Hands off Mrs. Yoy!
Yesterday, I was having a rough afternoon. I was exhausted from the weekend and feeling a tad under the weather.
Not feeling 100% is incompatible with being a mother. It just won't work, no matter how hard you try.
I powered through their dinner which was served promptly at 5pm. These kids were going to bed early.
As the Yoys munched away on their dinners, I straightened up the house.
By now, the downstairs resembled a war zone. Mr. Yoy's Lego pyramids he had built to show how good us Jews were at building them, had since been obliterated into pieces and were strewn about.
I AM SO TIRED. ONLY ONE MORE HOUR. I AM SO TIRED. ONLY ONE MORE HOUR.
I kept repeating these phrases to myself. I had to make it.
I finally had most of their crap put away. I know I am so Type A, but I hate coming downstairs in the morning to a disaster. I just can't handle it. It has to be neat. If only for a minute.
I returned to the kitchen area to find that Little E had made it rain green beans. Like all over the place. And Poodle Yoy, who is nasty enough to eat sh*t diapers, won't touch them. I guess she draws the line at green beans.
I AM SO TIRED. ONLY ONE MORE HOUR. I AM SO TIRED. ONLY ONE MORE HOUR.
I took a deep breath and bent over to clean up the green bean graveyard littering my kitchen.
And then I felt it. Little E's turkey lasagna (I know, it is Passover) covered paws. He was patting me on the back.
HI! HI! HI!
I immediately jumped out of his reach and took off my favorite Target cardigan sweater.
There, like a hand print at Grauman's Chinese Theater, was Little E's print in red sauce on my favorite sweater.
Really? Come on!
I AM SO TIRED. ONLY THIRTY MINUTES. I AM SO TIRED. ONLY THIRTY MINUTES.
I made the executive decision to penalize Little E thirty minutes for that play. There ARE rules you know, and wiping nasty hands on my sweater is definitely against them.
I managed to have Little E in bed by six. Big E followed soon after. And I finally took a much deserved shower.
Hallelujah!
Why did I choose Donald Duck you ask? Only because I was dead set on naming my brother Donald Duck and I was super pissed at my parents when they decided on another name. Traitors.
Not feeling 100% is incompatible with being a mother. It just won't work, no matter how hard you try.
I powered through their dinner which was served promptly at 5pm. These kids were going to bed early.
As the Yoys munched away on their dinners, I straightened up the house.
By now, the downstairs resembled a war zone. Mr. Yoy's Lego pyramids he had built to show how good us Jews were at building them, had since been obliterated into pieces and were strewn about.
I AM SO TIRED. ONLY ONE MORE HOUR. I AM SO TIRED. ONLY ONE MORE HOUR.
I kept repeating these phrases to myself. I had to make it.
I finally had most of their crap put away. I know I am so Type A, but I hate coming downstairs in the morning to a disaster. I just can't handle it. It has to be neat. If only for a minute.
I returned to the kitchen area to find that Little E had made it rain green beans. Like all over the place. And Poodle Yoy, who is nasty enough to eat sh*t diapers, won't touch them. I guess she draws the line at green beans.
I AM SO TIRED. ONLY ONE MORE HOUR. I AM SO TIRED. ONLY ONE MORE HOUR.
I took a deep breath and bent over to clean up the green bean graveyard littering my kitchen.
And then I felt it. Little E's turkey lasagna (I know, it is Passover) covered paws. He was patting me on the back.
HI! HI! HI!
I immediately jumped out of his reach and took off my favorite Target cardigan sweater.
There, like a hand print at Grauman's Chinese Theater, was Little E's print in red sauce on my favorite sweater.
Really? Come on!
I AM SO TIRED. ONLY THIRTY MINUTES. I AM SO TIRED. ONLY THIRTY MINUTES.
I made the executive decision to penalize Little E thirty minutes for that play. There ARE rules you know, and wiping nasty hands on my sweater is definitely against them.
I managed to have Little E in bed by six. Big E followed soon after. And I finally took a much deserved shower.
Hallelujah!
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