You see, it was a dark and stormy night…no, really, it was! Well, it was overcast and threatening rain anyway. So, D had left to alleviate some stress of a brand new job, and I was home alone with the 3 things at bedtime. For reasons that are good, but not really good enough, I had been spacing out my happy pills, and apparently had spaced them a bit too much, resulting in me being a sloppy emotional mess with a hair-trigger snitch factor.
After TT1 had to be held onto the pot to poop after holding it for 5 days (that we know of),
After TT2 melted down because I refused to let him have another freakin’ drink before bed in the hopes that he would not hose it down and climb in with me at some point,
After TT1 decided he could eat his dinner since the huge, toilet-clogging crap left him room in his stomach for food at 8 pm,
After TT3 stripped down and peed on TT1’s bed,
After TT3 stripped again and attempted to pee on the dog,
After TT2 got up eleventy thousand times to pee/poop/check out the toilet-ring on his butt,
After TT3 climbed out of his bed every 0.00000009 seconds,
After TT3 screamed bloody murder every 0.0000010 seconds when put back into his bed,
After being told innumerable times by all 3 wretched, ungrateful, mouthy, cranky, stinky children how much I suck, how much they hate me, and how horrible a mother I am,
I totally lost it. My schmidt fled the house in fear for it’s life. I ranted. I raved. I slammed doors of all sizes. I may have thrown something. I threatened bodily harm. I cried. I scared the living crap out of myself.
It was not pretty. And after all of that, I sat in the recliner with a glass of wine and my book, rocking, rocking, rocking and smiling evilly at the ceiling, through which desperate cries and pleas for daddy continued to filter. I may have had a twitch.
I texted D. I demanded immediate return and the location of his belt. I demanded to know why his children were so horrible to their mother. I cried. I laughed a bit crazily. I rocked some more. I was assured of swift return.
Over an hour later, I continued to rock and sip my wine. The crying and shouted invectives had ceased. I wondered where in the name of Maude D was. I rocked. I called; no answer.
After almost 2 hours, my partner, my support, my occasionally calming influence, finally returned. The house was quiet. The wine was gone. The meds were re-ordered for refill as soon as possible. The only sound was the rock, rock rocking of the recliner.
No children were harmed or permanently emotionally scarred in the making of this blog post, but apparently the truck had to die to make it possible.