Captain's Log: The 71st Snowpocalypse of 2k19 (a.k.a World's End)
Ready to experience all of the stages of grief?
Working until the 4th of July won't be so bad. June is overrated. Idle hands and all that. Speaking of, I will get so much done at my house today. So much cleaning and organizing and writing and lesson planning. So many checkmarks off my list. Bonus: This time is a gift with my own angel babies. We will do all the quality time things. We will snuggle and read books. We will make cookies and drink cocoa. Brainwave: Let's do all the crafty things that have accumulated in the craft closet. All the paint. All the beads. Messes are beautiful if my cherubs are having fun. Segue way to...3...2...1
Resentment builds as I lament whatever I did to deserve my children being gifted a set of roughly 1,000,000 beads. Like why? Did I insult your mother? Did I tailgate you once? Did I shove bamboo chutes under your fingernails? No? Well, then I'm coming for you now. It's on. Also how.in.the.world. can a kid get paint between his toes with socks on? The box said 6+ and my seven-year-old is exhibiting all the fine motor skills of a beached whale. So I end up finishing all the projects because they are bored and can't follow directions. Now my neck hurts.
I notice my tone/rhetoric have shifted since stage 1. I think I literally just screamed the words "turd burglar" at my seven-year-old. Loudly. Like someone may call DHS. I am not proud. But also I am no longer in possession of any rips. The beads are everywhere, and I'm cleaning paint out of toe crevices at 9:45 AM?
Why do we even live where something like a polar vortex can happen? Sayonara suckers...I cannot. It's so dumb. I'm dumb. I would literally burn it all to the literal ground if it wasn't so freaking cold out. But alas, here we are.
Dear Jesus--Mediator--Savior--take the literal wheel. Deliver me from the evils of this day. I repent of my rage and grumbling spirit. I implore You for peace even if that looks like unhealthy snacks and way too much Paw Patrol. I would literally sell this house and pursue full-time ministry on another [warmer] continent for some quiet. If the answer is millitary school for one or both children, Lord, open the door. I leave it in Your capable hands.
It's 1:37 PM, and I am still in the sweatpants I slept in. I can't confirm if I've brushed...anything. Does it matter? Does anything? I am a caged animal. Trapped. I am a terrible person and mother. Why can't I be better at this? What is wrong with me? Note to self: donate brain to science upon demise. Also the sky and ground should not be the same bleak color as my soul. I guess it's time to self-medicate with mindless scrolling through socials to feel even worse about myself as a person and mother. Awesome. [Eyore sigh]
It's 7:00 PM, and it's still snowing. Hopefully, we will get another snow day tomorrow...