I had an awesome workout on the track yesterday morning. This week is race week so the plan called for 6 x 200’s. They were supposed to be at 39.2.
Let's just get real... I'm PMSing like a motha and I'm not interested in being all positive and up on things. My day started off fine with a little lifting weights in the basement without seeing a moving spider. Win! It was fine until the oldest one asked why daddy keeps making him wear the youngest one's shirt. I say, I don't know and I don't know how it keeps getting in your drawer. Then I tell him he can go pick out another one but not to make a big deal about it. Good, great, life is grand and I'm tolerating PMS ok this morning. THEN, he comes back in the living room in a Chief's jersey that he got out of the laundry (off his floor) that his brother wore 2 days ago. Plus he had on camo pants, so he's looking like he just stepped out of White Trashville. I swear I saw a rat tail on his shoulder.
I am trying to be patient and help him out, but every shirt I pick out is wrong. "It's too long. "It will go down to here (right passed his boy parts) and I don't like it going down to here." In the whiniest voice you have ever heard. He is 6!!!! I give up, say get a shirt, I have crap to do and the whole world came crumbling down. Over a freakin shirt. I go about my normal business a little louder and forceful than normal hoping like crazy he will get his crap together before I really lose my shit. I go to start my car and soon I hear the screaming following me. He is outside at the car in 30 degree weather without a shirt on demanding that I get him a shirt picked out. It's a good thing we don't live in a busy neighborhood is all I have to say. We really can't get anymore White Trashville than a good ol' screaming fight with a shirtless boy outside in the driveway fresh out to start the morning.
His much calmer parent took over and tried his hand at getting the boy a non-penis covering shirt even over his demands that he wanted his mommy to do it. I think he ended up with a shirt on. Who knows. Wonder how Jackie, or whatever the hell her name is will like his puffy eyes this morning when he gets to school.
Usually when this thick of drama is going on the other two stay out of harms way and keep their mouths shut, but this morning the other two decided to pick up where big brother left off. They started fighting over the car seats and who was sitting where. So, two out of three of them hysterically crying this morning over stupid crap while baby brother got his way and me throwing gravel with the tires as I left the driveway (more White Trashville). I'm thankful Weston was in more than just a diaper when I carried him out on my hip. Not bad, right?!
Boys, here is a lesson for you, you have 2.5ish weeks where you can pretty much do anything and mom isn't going to lose her shit. She will be fairly patient, fairly kind, and give lots of praise and kisses and hugs, she will also play cops with you more often, playfully hiding and shooting you with fake bullets from across the room. But, those other 1.5ish weeks, watch the hell out! It might be good for you to start tracking when those weeks are in your favor if you want to live to see your teens!!! Screaming like a girl and sobbing over what freaking shirt you want to wear or that you want to sit in the baby seat but your baby brother won't let you probably aren't good things to bring up on the 1.5ish side of things. It's simple woman math!
AND L.I.K.E spells like, like, like, like, like, like. "L" - this is a FREAKING "L". T.H.E spells the. the, the, the, the, the. Not fffff, not you, not was. IT'S "THE"!!!! Waylon, wipe your own ass, and Weston, stop shitting more than once a freaking day, stop scooting the chair to the bar stools to climb, stop jumping from the coffee table to the couch, shut the fridge and get out of the DAMN PANTRYYYYYY!!!