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It ain’t pretty, y’all.


FML - It ain't pretty

This wreck that had been my summer, it ain’t pretty, y’all, so I’ll warn you up front. Let me explain my absence.  The last month or so has been an epic catastrophe.  I know you won’t believe me, but let me try to explain. You’ll want to grab some popcorn because this is just unreal.

So, I had a monkey jumping on the bed, which landed Diva in Children’s ER. We’ve had a birthday fail, which Hubs recovered, but my dad was seriously stressed when he thought he lost all of his e-mails, most distressing were his receipts so he could complete his work expense reports.

We’ve had a soccer uniform fiasco, too. And “missing” shin guards, as well as practices in 100+degree heat indexes.  Did I mention some mosquitoes tested positive for West Nile Virus just a few miles down the road?

Oh, and car shopping. That whole experience has just made me exhausted, and at this point, I don’t even care what I get. However, I am scheduling a test drive this evening with Volvo. Yes, Volvo; have you seen the XC90? Turbo & supercharged 4 cylinder? Great gas, seats 7, it’s a Volvo, so it’s a tank, which is what I want, and the safety features are outrageous.  I swear, the Engineering genius who came up with this car must be married to a Southern Hot Mess, because this vehicle is SHM proof. I can even be cruising down the highway, slapping at both kids, and it will keep the vehicle in the lane, brake for any knob that cuts me off, and adjust the speed –  Even if I’m distracted beyond belief.

Meanwhile, back at home I can’t go to the bathroom without interruptions. I’m loving having part-time help, however, I still can’t seem to get ahead of laundry, dishes, or cleaning, much less find the time or energy to do what I love most – blogging.

We moved the futon in my office into our bedroom, so the monstrosity called Love Sac now disgraces my office (we didn’t have room for both in the master), but it’s one step closer to getting Diva out of my bed, and that equals a decent night’s sleep for me & Hubs.

Potty training has become a bad joke around my house. Diva demands to use the potty when it suits her.  Not one accident last week on Wednesday, to be exact, and now has lost any desire to use the potty again, unless she is facing a time-out. She even used public restrooms at Jaguar!  She did so good! But that is over. Our sheets are in the wash presently, as she needed to drink 10 ounces of water at 10PM last night.

We lost our Cub Master in Scouts, too. Did I mention that? So the last two weeks I have been in a free-fall. School is starting up, Scouts is starting up. Fall Soccer is starting up. And me? I’m heading for a nervous break down. Boo was vomiting last night, as was Hubs, and now Diva is complaining of an ear ache. I was up 3 hours this morning, beginning at 2 AM, because my knees and joints were, and still are killing me. Thank you humidity & area rain.

This morning, prime example, is classic of what happens every day around here.  Hub leaves for work, and the door handle comes off in his hands.  I search in vain for half an hour, garage door standing open, while I desperately comb the house for my electric screwdriver, then rifle through Hub’s toolbox to find a Phillips head so I can fix it.  Boo is fussing for a lemon (crazy thing, when our stomachs are upset, lemons help to settle it), Diva is running from the Nanny, poo smell trailing behind her, then I strip the sheets, remind Boo to fold the towels (he got 1 of 3 loads folded before Diva jumped into the middle of them), then take a look at my task list. Disgust and anguish wash over me, and I’m hit with cascading waves of hopelessness in one instant.

I chug down my coffee, pop a Vyvanse, and set off, determined that this will be the day I kick some ass. So, before I dry the sheets, detail my car (so I can get one more estimate on trade-in this evening), I wanted to pop in, and say I’m not in jail or the asylum –  I’ve just been sucked into the stay-at-home-mom-summer-vacation vortex. This is the last week my son has before venturing through the 4th grade.

Peace,  Ya’ll.


HotMess
About me

Ever wonder what it’s like to be a southern hot mess? Join me as I slam through life like a bull in a china shop. It’s better if you just go with it.

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