Stop. Breathe.

Stop. Breathe.

I hear you, sister. And brother. And others, who aren’t sisters or brothers. And dogs. And I hear you, too, cats.

I hear you telling me:

I am exhausted.

These effing kids won’t let me sleep.

Plus, they keep putting shit in my coffee/tea/flavored beverages/dog bowl/toilet water.

They break everything that is nice. They demand everything that is crap.

I say to you, again:

Stop. Breathe.

Do you smell that?

When was the last time you checked your kid’s diaper? I think he may have taken a shit. Maybe. I don’t know.

Stop. Breathe.

You are doing a good job.

Well, okay, not as good as your friend whose kids eat edamame and kale salad, or your other friends whose three year old really can read, like, for real.

And your kid pushes my kid ALL THE TIME, but I’m not judging, just observing. I think he’s just angry about something, maybe something you did, or are doing. He might be fucked up some day if you don’t figure this out.

Just kidding.

No, really!

Stop. Breathe.

You are saying to me:

I feel like a failure. These little monkeys are fucking task masters. They won’t let me talk to my spouse/to myself/to the lady on the phone. They shout “STOP TALKING!!” every time I start talking to anyone but them.

But I can’t hear you, because your child is shouting too loud at us to “stop talking.” And so is mine.

Stop.

Breathe.

Do you smell that?