The past 24 hours or so have not been my finest, parenting-wise. I know being sick and barraged by the unbelievable, unrelenting NEEDS and WANTS and WANTS-MISTAKEN-FOR-NEEDS of children* (who now outnumber you, huzzah!) can eventually make the most patient soul alive possibly crack into a million grumpy shrill pieces, or at least that's what I NEED** to believe so I don't feel so lousy about my two-millimeter-length fuse.
Last night while waiting for Jason to come home I got so increasingly short with my children that I:
1) Glared at a six-month-old baby with the glare of "You Better Knock That Shit Off Or I Will Turn This Car Around/Send You To Your Room/Give You Something To Cry About." It was surprisingly ineffective!
2) Caused Noah to tentatively and sweetly ask, "Are you happy, Mommy?", which made me feel so guilty and mean and GAH, but then he kept asking it over and over again and by the 25th time the guilt had worn off and I yelled that "NO, I'M NOT HAPPY." Then he said, "Don't worry, Mommy. It's okay, Mommy," and I wondered if he found ME that annoying when I used those same canned phrases to snap HIM out of a bad mood.
And it pretty much went on like that until bedtime. At which point I put Ezra down in his crib and FLED back to the bathroom where I treated myself to a delicious shot of Nyquil, reasoning that I had until at least 6 am before I had to deal with either of them again, which meant HOURS of peaceful, drug-induced stupor. I was in bed at 8:30 pm and sound asleep by 9 pm after watching about 15 minutes of The Princess Diaries. (I've never seen it! Still haven't! Don't spoil it for me! The suspense over when Anne Hathaway's character discovers the wonders of flat-irons is what makes it great!)
Ezra woke up at 3 am. Noah followed at 4 am. I dreamt that my blog turned into a talking squirrel named Martin and in order to post updates I had to feed nuts to him using a Morse-code-like rhythm. It made sense at the time.
I'm feeling much better today, though I admit my patience is a lagging indicator. Jason and I are supposed to go see the new Star Trek movie tonight, and while part of me feels guilty*** for going to a crowded movie theater while coughing in the height of manufactured swine flu panic season, part of me knows that if I do not get a couple of hours away from my beloved preshus children I will soon be discovered locked in a closet feeding trail mix to an imaginary squirrel named Martin.
<photo inserted just for the sake of making me sound like the most awful person ever, like who could glare at that face? who? me, that's who, and he probably only partially deserved it>
*And don't even get me started on the pets! Pets! Seriously, how old do cats have to be before they develop opposable thumbs and can open their own damned can of cat food? Wait. What? Really? Awww, fuck that shit.
**Need! There's that word again! If you are reading aloud, please to pronounce as NEE-EE-EE-UD to better convey the goddamn whining that's been taking over our household. Also, stop reading aloud. It's creepy.
***Oh Jesus Christ on a cracker, is there anything I don't feel guilty about? Let me check. Well, I don't think I'm DIRECTLY to blame for the stock market crash, and I was on the phone when the housing bubble burst and I've also never watched The Hills so I probably didn't cause Speidi, even though I have admittedly continued to acknowledge their existence. So that's three! I should write a goddamn self-help book. I'll call it Why Everything Ever is All Your Fault: How to Turn Guilt Into Squirrels That Crap Solid Gold Nuggets.