A little girl in my class has a stuffed white tiger. I called it Rajah on the very first day I saw it. She now refers to this white tiger as “Rajah”, as well. As you can see, my memory failed miserably. Though Rajah is indeed a tiger…Rajah is not a white tiger. I am slightly ashamed that I tried to prove Google wrong by crossing over to IMDB. Of course Google was not wrong. Google is never wrong. Google knows all.
It’s illegal to catch rainwater. (Are you serious? — Yes. I mean, according to my husband. And Google. And we already determined: Google is never wrong. Google knows all.) In other news, this photo is so old…and that little girl is nearing six years old. I remember when I found out that I was pregnant with her; I thought God had lost his mind. Turns out, He knew what he was doing.
I had a total meltdown this morning (Sunday). The baby started crying at 8:15. Had a bottle. Threw up on the floor. Dog threw up on the floor. The almost-six-year-old needed breakfast…and, later, lunch… Baby had another bottle. I finished half an Herbalife shake; half a cup of coffee. I curled a portion of my hair for a graduation party. Baby continued to cry. I changed baby’s diaper. Baby peed on freshly curled hair. …I dried said portion and recurled. (Who has time to daytime-shower anymore? Anyone? Am I alone in this?) Baby continued to cry. Turned on 90s country music; Crying ceased; Baby slept. Decided to get dressed. Down 10 pounds! (Woot!) Getting dressed should be a breeze!…just pick out anything in my closet and put it on…out the door I go. Right? Wrong-o! So…I’ve lost 10 pounds…The scale assures me daily (sometimes multiple times, daily) that I have absolutely, 110% have lost 10 pounds. So. Why. The. F**k. Do. My. Clothes. Still. Not. Fit? I cried and cried. And ya know what? It was totally okay…and necessary. I am only human. And I don’t have to have it together every minute of every day. Thank God.
If it’s 10:30pm and my husband, while drifting into a pleasant slumber, suddenly says, “Please don’t go look in the dryer. Just don’t do it. You’re going to be so mad at me.” He’s probably telling the truth. There’s probably about 4 regular sized loads of laundry in the dryer…and the clothes are packed so tightly that they aren’t even moving as the barrel turns. You see that picture? It’s a stock photo…but…it very closely resembles what we had going on. Whites and blues and towels and delicates… My inner OCD felt betrayed by this wonderful man, attempting to share the burden of a Sunday afternoon. I bet he hates it when I talk to him like he’s one of the two-year-olds in my classroom: “I’m feeling very upset by this. What is our solution? Next time…do you think maybe we can separate those into a few smaller loads…so they won’t all have to be rewashed? I think that would probably work out best…” …He picked me. Of all of the people in the world…I’m sure there would be others, easier to live with…but he picked me.
There are assholes at the Kansas City Zoo…and they wanted (so badly) for my husband to lose his cool. BUT…he kept it. And I was proud of him…because I struggled to keep my cool…and that doesn’t happen easily.
This happened. And it was way cool. And honorable mention is an honor…for sure.
That dress was a dress last year. I can’t believe how much she’s grown. But I wanted to point out her shoes. Those are Twinkle Toes. If you know anything about my daughter, you know that she is B-U-S-Y…ALWAYS. And, if you know anything about me, I’m not about to pay $40 for a pair of shoes that will last her a month (TOPS). I found them on Amazon for $12. WOOT! And they were Prime. WOOT! AND…she tied them herself…twice. WOOT WOOT WOOT!
I had the pleasure (was it truly pleasing?) of meeting up with a person I know who takes large (MASSIVE) amounts of narcotic pain medication to manage chronic pain. (I am in no way doubting that there is pain. Don’t comment or message me about how people with chronic pain need meds to function…blah, blah, I get it. Open your mind and read on. Or exit. I care not; either way.) In conversation with this person, they talk down about the heroin addict…they talk down about addiction and those who resist recovery… They minimize the fact that, though all prescriptions are intended for this particular individual, there are several prescribing doctors…and…I’m not an idiot. Come on now. They experience moments of memory loss and forgetfulness (side effects)…and sleeplessness followed by extreme exhaustion (more side effects)… Oh, and those headaches (another side effect)…They are positive, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there is a mass in their brain…and death is looming around every corner like the friggin’ Boogeyman (side effect, side effect, side effect). Just thought I’d give a PSA to let anyone who is in denial know: A needle is not a necessary accessory for addiction. It can be; but does not have to be.
And I think I’ll leave you with this thought for the week.
