Wednesday, May 9, 2012

If you're one of "them"...

This week has been something of a train wreck... and it's only Wednesday.

Although it was sprinkled with "moments", the bad FAR outweighed the good insomuch as I feel that the few and far between "good" were exactly enough to keep my claws in the wall before I fell backwards into a vat of depression ready to be consoled with tubs of Blue Bell, M&Ms, Taco Bell and white cupcakes with sprinkles.

This week has not been good.  I'm sick.  Benji is sick.  I'm running on zero sleep.  I haven't been to the gym since Monday.  I've eaten like crap and I have an incessant crick in my neck that is prohibiting me from sleeping well, moving well or feeling able to fully function.

I have no desire to regurgitate the excessive "bad" that I've experienced since Monday other than to say that if someone ever tells me to "cherish these times" with my two year old, I will cut them.

If I hear someone tell me "oooh, don't you wish they could stay this age forEVER" -- I will punch them in the throat.

If I hear anyone speak to me about how they wish they could stay home with their perfect, wonderful, well-mannered, potty-trained, speaking in full sentences, two-year-old, I may go postal and hold the entire Central Market of Southlake hostage with a six-pack of bananas and a pair of toenail clippers!

Don't get me wrong.  I love my children.  I love them.  I do.  (I think the more I say it, I'm trying to convince myself that I really do.  Is it working?  I don't know...ask me tomorrow!  No, seriously... ha ha ha... I do.)  I love them.

I do, however, HATE the age that one of them has happened to have attained.  He is a shit storm on wheels.  He is a holy terror of tantrums.  He is the epitome of the "strong willed child."  He is his father's son.  He is my punishment for anything I have ever done wrong in life.

This is for the California stops... for making fun of that girl named Keitha in 4th grade because she never brushed her hair.  This is for throwing a drink in the jerk's face at Chances when he said he was going to Denim and Diamonds because they "could dance there" when HE was actually LEADING wrong and TURNING the wrong direction.  This is for not tipping the car-hops at Sonic when I used my debit card on a drink.  Punishment, I say!

I hate two year olds.

I love my son.

I hate the age.  But only when they act like... well, my son!

He hates me.  Of this, I am convinced.

He is sick.  This exacerbates the whiney.  I don't tolerate nor do I speak "whine."  This makes for a very, very long, looooooooooooooooooong day.

Let's do a daily recap, shall we?

I contemplated waking him up knowing that his medication would have worn off about 11 last night so he was potentially feverish as he has been since Monday afternoon.  He woke up on his own around 9am.  Temperature?  100.8

And the stand-off began.  As of yesterday, he refuses to take medication from me.  I have held him down.  I have held his nose shut.  I have had Josh hold him down.  I have tried to bribe him.  I have tried everything known to man and the child will not take it.  He spit it on me.  He spit it on him.  He drooled it down his shirt.  He got it in his hair, on his hands, on the floor.

Suppositories were my next step.  It wasn't going to be pretty.

This evening at 6pm, Andy walks in the door and the little freakin' twerp takes it like it was candy.

Do you know what I said to him?

I bet you do.

It wasn't nice.

I'll leave it at that.

Ben would hardly eat today.  As such, he's constipated.  TMI? Yeah?  Well, deal with it.

He dumped an entire box of diapers, emptied the wipes.

Unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper.

Multiple times throughout the day he would have a drawer dumping spree only to turn the drawer upside down, stand on them and then proceed to reach and thus clear off anything within his grasp from whatever he could reach.  I believe he will have a minimalist approach in life.  Clutter free tabletops and counters.

He tried treating the dishwasher door as a basketball.  I'm sure the hinges are permanently warped.

Not once, but twice when changing a diaper -- his hand went into the.. crap.  I muttered f-bombs under my breath.

I picked him up to move him when he was trying to hit my dog with something and he has entered the lets-put-a-death-grip-pinch-right-on-mom's-boob stage while simultaneously clawing her neck to oblivion.

Oh, yeah, and my head -- it's a target -- for EVERYTHING he can pick up.

He emptied out the contents of the entire shelving unit in the playroom... anything with small parts -- dumped.

Then, they were projectiles.

This is in a matter of minutes, friends.

THIS is why it was imperative I found a summer preschool program for him -- I simply would not survive this summer without one.  Without a summer program, I would require some sort of intervention, a plethora of anti-depressants and copious amounts of liquor.  You see, finding a suitable preschool program for summertime is not only necessary for him, it's going to save me thousands in therapy (or possibly a criminal defense attorney) in the long run.

The truly sad part is that you probably think I'm joking.

Early this afternoon, I visited a preschool that had been recommended by a friend.  It's not near the house.  It is 20-25 minutes away, in fact.  I was, however, well prepared to make the drive three days a week.  Unfortunately, I was informed when I walked in that in order to sign him up for summer, he had to be registered for fall, too!  Um.. well, no one TOLD me that on the phone!

I left somewhat disgusted.  Nearly in tears.

On the way home, I pulled over and simply put my head on the steering wheel and just gave it all to God.  I was seriously at my wit's end.  I was at the last thread of my miserable rope.  I was hanging on by dental floss.  I had exhausted nearly all means and the tears just flowed.  I was giving up and realized just what a truly shitty summer I was about to be in for.  And, I totally ended that sentence with a preposition -- deal with it!

Like I said, don't get me wrong -- I love this little terror -- but sometimes, you just need someone to cut you some friggin slack.

So, driving home, I passed by Southlake Christian Preschool.  It's right outside my neighborhood.  It's not open yet but they now have a sign up that says "OPEN JUNE FIRST!  They have a SUMMER ONLY program!  They are accepting kids FOR SUMMER!

I was elated.  I picked up a registration packet.  I would have filled it out right then and gave it to her but it was noon, he was tired (I was hoping hungry but that proved to not be the case).  While we tried to talk for just a few about everything, he tried to run away down the hall.  I had to scoop him up.  He proceeded to slap me in the face.  Not once, not twice but repeatedly.  So, I set him on the ground.  He refused to cooperate.  I know she was used to this behavior but, as a mother, having your child strike you -- in the face -- in public -- really made me feel like a giant LOSER!

Thanks, Benji, ya little TROLL!  Grrrrr...

Tonight, he wouldn't eat dinner.  He just wanted to throw it.  Pizza.

He ate about a cup of blueberries, however.

Josh had a rain-out game reschedule for tonight so that meant, you guessed it, it's ME... with Benji... for the evening, too.

Bathtime, he wouldn't leave his butt alone.  That was weird.  I'm thinking it was the constipation.  Who has to continually tell their kid to leave their butt alone?  His goal for bathtime?  Empty the bath -- onto the floor and rug.  Good times... good times.

Did I mention --  I HATE THIS AGE?

I let him play with Drew after his bath.

He was nice to him.

It was 8:20 and I told them both time for bed -- I was done.  He grabbed a truck.  I had his blanket and his truck.  He hit me in the temple with the truck.  I took the truck and threw it against the wall.  I hope it broke.
I hate that truck.

My head hurts.

Today sucked.

I decided I deserved a beer.

Did I mention I was sick?

Yeah, I can't taste the flippin' thing!!!

Is that not the icing on the cake?!

Oooh... I said cake...

So much for my beer.  I'm going to go eat a Reeces peanut butter cup...or twelve.

I hate today... and if someone tries to give me some Mary freakin Poppins silver-lining bullshit story about how every day is a gift blah blah blah... they can suck it.  Because today sucked!

If I were in their world, then you know what, it would be different.  But this is my little shit storm today... and today sucked.  Period.  Go drink a beer for me and tell me how wonderful it is.  I hope you bump your head on the freezer door pulling your head out and that you get a crick in your neck.... and then step on a Lego in the dark!


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