This is one of those days where this mother who has four kids at home really FEELS it. You know what I'm talking abou - you HAVE FOUR KIDS. And EVERYTHING shows it!
The wrinkles forming on my face that people say are from all the smiling are actually, in fact, a direct result of grimacing and growling at my kids to get their chores done before they turn eighty seven. The pain in my belly from the used up uterus is tired from carrying children, and even more tired from PMS. Who needs PMS if you're done having kids? HEY - just STOP already! Can't we pause this thing indefinitely without fear of cancer or some other death by not-being-natural method? What about my home life? I don't even wanna go there. But I will. Because I'm going ever so slowly insane and I want people to know why.
I pick up trash. I throw away trash. I ask someone to take the trash out. The trash piles up. Determined to be teacher of life lessons and not an enabler of bad habits, I leave the trash as a visual "example" of what happens when you do not follow directions. I ask that the trash be taken out. I pick up more trash. I shove trash down in the can so more will fit. Other people try. They fail. Trash falls on the floor. I pick up trash. I balance more trash on top of pile of trash. I ask that the trash be taken out. I go to my room. I scream and pull out clumps of hair. I pick up hair. I place it ever so delicately on the wavering pile of trash. I ask that the trash be taken out. A large booming voice comes from within me, along with a grimace and a growl that I do not recognize. The growl puts fear in a child and the trash is taken out. Most of the trash, that is. The trash that was balanced delicately on top is now on the floor. A hair clump is missing.
I ask someone to sweep the floor. I pick up crumbs with my fingertips. I throw crumbs away. I ask someone to PLEASE sweep. Dirty shoes walk through unnoticed. Dirt gets noticed. I ask someone to sweep one more time before I crack a blood vessel in my brain. A week passes by. I now walk with my head up so I can't see the floor, but I break a toe when it gets tied up in someone's backpack. Tired of shoving dirt and crumbs and trash to the side with my feet, I growl and grimace so much I give birth to a new wrinkle. Someone in a huff gets a broom. The sweeping and whining begin. The broom gets put away after about 33 seconds. The dustpan forgot to show up. I ask someone to sweep again. The whining nearly makes me punch myself in the head. I growl a ferocious growl. The broom AND dustpan decide to join the party. Sweeping makes a repeat performance. Then screaming is heard. There is something alive under the fridge. I must intervene. This is not a learning opportunity now, this is a real problem. I take the broom to the underside of the fridge. Big strokes. The "live" thing comes out attached to the broom. The kids shriek. It is only the missing hair clump wearing spagetti noodle pieces and a week old fruit loop.
Life goes on.
But just to clarify, I didn't actually break my toe on a backpack. I do, however, have three very bruised toes that were nearly ripped from my body as I was attempting to get out of the shower and simultaneously maneuver a pile of laundry that my child was to have taken to the laundry room two days before. They may be broken. We'll never know. I don't have time to get 'em looked at because I'm trying to get the dishes done this month.
God bless my children. If they ever live to adulthood.