S is for Stress

I am Stressed. Out.  I can’t commit to one responsibility for longer than 10 minutes because the other responsibilities just sit there, mean muggin’ me.

I have papers to grade.  No matter how many I grade, the pile continues to grow.

I have dishes to wash.  No  matter how many I wash, the sink continues to fill.

I have a house to clean.  No matter how much I clean, the floors continue to sprout dirty socks, toys, and dog hair.

There is no reprieve in sight.  No light at the end of the tunnel.  No promise of better days.

I guess I’d better up those meds.

S is for Screaming

Alister, 4, started screaming at bedtime because I wouldn’t read him a book after he played his I’m-going-to-say-the-opposite-of-what-I-mean game.  This game has been his favorite since age 2.  When playing the game, the object is to say the opposite of what it is you really mean.  Pretty straightforward.

I told him he had 5 minutes before bedtime.  He started having a fit.  I told him if he continued to have a fit, he would have zero minutes before bedtime.  He calmed down.

On the way upstairs, I asked him if he wanted to read a book.  He said he wanted to watch a book on YouTube.  I told him we were going to read a book together or read nothing at all.

When we got to his room, he plopped down on his bed.  I told him to get up to pick out a book.  He just stayed there, silent.  I told him to pick out a book again.  He said no.  I said fine, then, I was leaving.  He started screaming and ran over to the bookshelf, yanking out books in desperation, shattering my fine china with the shrillness of his voice.  I told him he knows better than to play this game and needs to learn his lesson.

He began flailing and shrieking like an inmate in an insane asylum.  I thought he was going to punch a hole through my wall.

My voice calmly reminded him that he needs to say what he means if he truly wants something.  My shaking hands and burning insides told me to get away from him before I did something unspeakably terrible.

He continued to behave like a crazy person.  I continued to control my fury.  Finally, we both calmed down, and we read Bear’s Day Out.  I feel like need my own day out .

S is for Shidookey

Mr. Sammich and Ewing had just returned from therapy when Mr. Sammich left again to go play hockey.  Something smelled…not right.  I checked the surrounding carpet and furniture for dog crap or barf.  Nada.

I looked under the couch for discarded kiddie snacks or banana peels.  Clean.

I peered at Ewing, 2, with eyebrow raised.  “Do you have a poopy?” I asked.

“No poopy,” he replied.

“Are you sure?”

“No poopy!”

I chased him into the kitchen and pulled back his diaper.  HOLYFUCKINGHELL.

There was a poopy.  And I’m pretty sure a colon and half an intestine.

I need a stiff drink.