So what is going on with me? Why do I keep disappearing? Where do I even go? What happened to my seemingly infinitely endless capacity to talk about myself?
I don't know. Work is pretty busy. Okay, really busy. And life is pleasantly monotonous. I'm switching closets over to fall/winter and am unprepared to deal with the actual number of closets that involves now. I took Ezra to the dentist last week and then spent the rest of the day nursing a thrashy head-butt bruise with an ice pack while starting at the ceiling like a shellshocked zombie.
("Does he have any SENSORY ISSUES?" the hygienist asked me, as Ezra proceeded to flip the fuck out for 20 agonizing minutes straight. "No," I said, while attempting to gently hog-tie him to the chair with my own limbs. "Except for THIS ONE RIGHT HERE, apparently.")
We saw Gone Girl over the weekend but arrived late and had to sit in the front row and my neck is still killing me, plus Jason has a cold with the number-one side effect of breathing so loudly at night he wakes me up and I get to spend hours lying awake, trying to ignore something he can't help while also fighting the urge to kick him in the shins and/or thwack him with a pillow.
And then Ike woke up from a nightmare — a nightmare that involved me eating all his ice cream. This was so upsetting he cried himself back to sleep on Jason's side of the bed because he was too angry with me. I was sympathetic and all, but child, I stayed up late and watched that killer clown on American Horror Story all by myself, so forgive me if I hastag your ice cream dream as #3yearoldproblems.
God, I'm tired.
Ezra turns six on Wednesday. God, I'm old.