Need Hazmat gear

Today was NOT a potty training success. My son has peed in a box of Christmas ornaments. Then he peed in a bag of clean pull ups. The icing on the cake, must have been pooping on my bed, and then wiping his butt on my bedroom window. I am so sick of cleaning up the bodily fluids of others, I can't even begin to tell you.

Each and every time I leave my son to attend to my other children, he wreaks havoc on my house. Unfortunately, the alternative is to let my babies starve or sit in dirty diapers...and so he knows he has me. All he has to do is wait, with that opportunistic gleam in his eye, and wait he does.

I do realize that I have said this before, and often, but, I am seriously tired. I am at the, "I would suck your dick for a nap*," point of exhaustion, and it feels really crappy. Every time I muster enough energy to get in gear, another disaster follows. I. Am. So. Tired. I pitched the idea to my husband that while he is here for Christmas, I might sneak away for a night....hahahahaha....that earned me a, "if you're planning on leaving me alone with six kids, I won't even come home for Christmas!" Which makes me pretty damn annoyed with him.

So, I guess I'll brew my 12th cup of coffee today, and keep on trucking.



*I can take no credit for the brilliance of this line. Those of you who haven't already read this post ought to. You will laugh, loudly.

My life (or, Cruel and Usual Punishment)

Tonight we'll begin with a Freudian slip. I would have been back online even earlier, had I not wasted precious time entering over and over, "mymommyneedssometimeoff" instead of "mymommyneedsatimeout." I feel like a total ass.

Friday night, my modem died. It just withered (like my FarmVille crops since) and died. I called ClearWire immediately. This is our third modem in less than a year. This is however, the first one that died over the weekend, so an overnight replacement wasn't an option. Five days people, five days I went without an internet connection. Aack! My sanity can totally not take this shit.

The subject of my sanity leads me to talk about my toddler. Holy crap, that kid is kicking my ass. Saturday morning I was getting the kids ready to go see Santa. Hercules hit my oldest daughter in the face with my hair dryer. She ended up with a cut under her eye and ice eventually brought down the swelling. When I showed him her eye he said, "wowie, wow, wow. That sure is a beautiful wound Jelly Bean!" When my daughter explained that it hurt her, he asked if she had fallen on rocks to get the cut. She told him that he had given her the cut when he hit her with the hair dryer. Then he asked my daughter, "why did I do that again?" In a separate post, I will show our last Christmas picture, our Easter picture, and this year's photo for comparison. Fun times, fun times.

When we finally made it to the mall, we had to stand in line for over an hour to see Santa (made possible by our sponsor, The Sandman) and when we finally made it up on stage, the baby was still fast asleep, The Little Lady was terrified of Santa, and Hercules was in an 'all out' state of tantrum. We hustled off the stage after taking an awful picture to remember the misery magic of this special holiday season by.

Hercules was already freaking out, so I paid no attention to his continued screams of, "bubblegum tree" until we experienced further meltdown in the Food Court. He was completely inconsolable until we gave up and retraced our steps to find the "bubblegum tree" that he was talking about. We tried about 10 bubblegum machines until we found the one. Once Hercules was pacified, we went back to the food court. Where we were enjoying dinner, until Hercules ducked under the table and made a break for it. Mall security had to get involved, and eventually, and blessedly he was found. Seconds people, fractions of seconds, was all it took.

Sunday, we went to the farmer's market where I buy our soap and my dogs' treats. They had Christmas trees there. I was impressed by the size of the tree for the price and so we bought one. It rode home with us, sandwiched lengthwise in the middle of my truck. After buying THREE, tree stands trying to find one small enough to hold the trunk, I realized something. I bought one of those evergreen bushes that people have at the end of their driveways. Yep. That's right. I suck so bad, and we have a six foot tall Christmas Bush to prove it. Fuck me.

Sunday night, my three year old woke up after the rest of us were sleeping and decorated the tree for us. He strung lights, hung ornaments, and dumped the contents of every single box in our storage closet trying to find the Christmas ones. Imagine my pleasure at my [17 month old] daughter's 2 a.m. feeding to find what my little elf had done.

My oldest son stayed home from school on Friday with a tic. The tic has progressively worsened over the weekend until present. He nods involuntarily several times a minute. He has been home from school since Friday, with no end in sight, unless of course you count the first available appointment with a neurologist in two months. What the bloody hell we are going to do until then, I know not.

My middle daughter has given up sleep, and her new favorite hobby is waking up her baby sister so that I am a sleep deprived, overly emotional mess. Yuck! I haven't even the energy to tell myself to, Suck it up Bitch!" It has been a seriously crappy few days. (We have apparently been dropped by our sponsor do to not fulfilling our contract, in reference to our obligation to be good role models.)

We had to go back to the mall today in order to have my son's DS fixed. My three year old made two attempts at running away. The first was on the way in. He jumped out of my truck with his carseat still attached and ran for the fire escape. Fortunately, the seat (which he must have unbuckled) slowed him down and we were able to catch him. The second was on the way back to the car. I put him in the truck, but, was trying to switch out the seat he sits in, so that I could use the floor latch. He opened the driver's side door and made a run for the elevator while I swore and fiddled with the seat. I had the distinct privilege to run down two flights of stairs to catch him before the elevator door opened on the ground floor.

On Tuesdays, my oldest daughter tutors. We were at the cafe waiting for her when my son jumped out of the cart he was strapped in and made another escape attempt. A sales associate caught him as I chased him down. Fun!!! Really flipping fun.

I am so tired. Emotionally, physically, mentally. I feel like I am being held prisoner by my three year old. I am afraid to leave the house with him, and yet, I'm afraid of what he'll do if I don't get him out of the house to run off some of his energy. I wonder how we wound up here. I wonder what method of discipline will ever get through to him. I wonder if I'll ever get to have five consecutive hours of sleep again.

I think that's about all folks. Time for me to head over to FarmVille and plant some crops.

A few things that have happened since my modem died

Number of times my three year old has run away: 3, to be returned 3 times by perfect strangers.

Number of days my oldest son has missed school: 3, with 4, 5, and 6 to pass before the week is over.

Number of bloody injuries perpetuated by my three year old: 1, with bonus points for happening before Santa pictures.

Number of times I have cried today: 2, with a third approaching.

Number of hours I have slept: Less than 10, cumulatively.

I am wishing, and hoping, and praying that my new modem arrives tomorrow early, because I feel like I have been completely cut off from the world outside of my cell in my toddler run version of Gitmo.

Random and nonsensical

Today I am getting ready to leave my nest for a few hours, and leave my little ones behind with my aunt (there isn't a sitter on Earth who will watch Hercules) and I thought I would share my thoughts as I get ready.

1. The bug guy is coming to spray today and my house is a disaster.
2. I don't really want to bring the tree home today, but, I won't be alone in a car again until after Christmas.
3. I would like to go get a massage today, but, if I do that, would I need to leave my trusty girdle at home?
4. My trusty girdles are actually tank top-ey things that I ordered one sleep deprived night last year, that should have served as clue number one that I was pregnant again, but, I digress, I have since grown attached to them. I wish that I could remember more about their origins than having seen them on a late night infomercial.
5. I am never buying oranges again, because my kids don't seem to find anything wrong with peeling them and leaving the trash behind on the floor/counter/wherever.
6. I will need to take emergency rations to the pay-per-pound laundry place. Those rations will not include any towels or blankets.
7. If I don't get off my girdled ass, I'll still be here when the pest control dude comes, and I would rather not be here to claim responsibility for my failures.

Profanity

I have a confession to make. One that many people will criticize me for. It is something that I struggle with both on the blog and in my daily life. My favorite word in the entire English language is f*#k. It's true. It is also true that I pretty much enjoy profanity in all forms. There is one word that I take exception to, the same word that most of you probably dislike more than the 'F' bomb, that nasty 'c' word is nasty indeed.

When I had my children, I knew that I needed to change my ways. I have been, for the most part, successful. Sure, there was that one incident when my oldest was in kindergarten. He called another kid on the playground a douche bag. I had to go talk to the principal and she asked me where he might have learned it. I very honestly answered, "the I-??, I-?? interchange, I'm sure." She wasn't very amused. I learned that I needed to be yet more vigilant, even when some douche bag was cutting me off.

So, I led a double life. At work, most (uh, all) of the people I knew, used their fair share of blue language. At home, I was expletive free. It worked for me. I could tell my husband that his "lack of sensitivity" bothered me, and at work I could say, "knock off the jackassery, will ya!" It was a good system.

Then, I left my day job, but, I worked nights as a bartender to supplement our income. Still, my work life served as a forum where I could voice my thoughts uncensored, "Last call! If you don't work here, sleep here, or sleep with someone who works here, get the f*#k out!"

When I quit the bar, I was in trouble. I would lock myself in the bathroom and scream, "f*#k, f*#k, bloody f*#king Hell," over and over until the urge passed. Then, slowly, but surely I started to slip. "Frig," took the place of "fudge." Then "flipping" gave way to "freakin'." A couple of "douche bags" instead of "idiots." Ouch! I knew I was on a slippery slope.

I continue to struggle daily with this issue. On my blog you will find the occasional expletive, please forgive my lapses. It's just that it can be so mother f*#king satisfying to vent, even though I know that I'm being a douche, and that it is shitty and the antithesis of classy that I desire to express myself in such a way. Bear with me folks, tomorrow, I'll be better.

Feel better now Jen?

This is our mounting laundry problem. This does not include the linens and towels, they are piled in the unused crib upstairs. There is also a 6 load sorting hamper full to bursting in my laundry room. This is what a family of 8, sans washing machine looks like. Feel better? You're welcome.

Lemonade is just water and sugar, this is way better

A bloggy friend of mine had an awesome idea a little while back...a regular meme for throwing lemons when you can't make lemonade, or just don't feel like having any. So, today we are throwing lemons at people over here at Proud Mom. I am by no means stealing Miss Stacey's thunder (uh, I hope) but I am suggesting that y'all check her blog out for the future of this fab idea.

The first lemon (right off my Grandmother's tree, using my 7 year old to illustrate size) gets chucked at my step children. For the pain and misery they have brought to our lives as of late.



Then there is another big fat lemon for the person who thought of the Kleenex 'Get Mommed' marketing campaign on Facebook. Isn't it bad enough that Obama gave us mom jeans? Must you really turn the unraveling of our identities outside of our children into a new word, and use it as a gimmick? I can promise you that if my nose is running or I have to sneeze, if the only tissue available to me is Kleenex brand...I'm wiping it on my shirt.

Another lemon is for my son's school. He is soon to be a published author, and the office lost the book order form with my credit card information on it. Go Hawks!

The last lemon is for Victoria's Secret. I loved you, I trusted you! How could you have let me down by not making any of your new bras in anything larger than a D cup? Why??? We had such a good run together, but, now I'm pissed. And, no, I don't want a 'conversion size' because the cup is too small dammit, and I refuse to suffer from both 'muffin top' and 'muffin breast' as a result of my six children.

If I wasn't so fond of Farmville, Id throw one at them too. The server errors I keep getting mean that I am reminded of the movie 'Groundhog Day' every time I click on the bookmark. I've harvested the friggin' blueberries already, and I have 32,248 coins. And 15 minutes from now, I'll get to do it all over again. How about a blue ribbon for patience, huh?

So, how about all of you? Leave a comment and toss your own lemons, so that Stacey will know what a great idea she's got.