Is it that hard

As I was buzzing around the house this morning collecting stray clothing for the laundry, I was stopped in my track by this sight in the bathroom.

(Before you stop reading, no, it is not an addition of “Who’s Poop is this?”  Surprisingly, the potential shame of a blog post has been highly effective in motivating my family to flush it down when it’s brown.)

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Apparently, there is some genetic mutation in the 18th chromosome pair that inhibits my offspring from being able to effectively exchange the empty, useless toilet paper remains for a brand new roll of 2-ply.

I blame their father’s alleles.

Not to be left out

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, I’m a Packers Fan.  Just looking at those words, they don’t seem like…enough.

I’m a gigantic, fanatic, don’t you dare call me during a game because I’m not going to talk to you on the freaking phone because THE GAME IS ON, fan!  I have a game day routine.  I have game day food.  I have game day attire that may or may not include game day underwear.  I have a problem and I’m proud of it.

Me on my birthday.  (It’s in September, so I’m always rewarding by aging with new gear for the season!  Thank you everyone for feeding my obsession!)

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Me at a baseball game.  (Yes, that is the game I am listening too.  Hey, at least I came to the game instead of staying home!)

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My Halloween Pumpkin

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My M&Ms

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Our Christmas card photo.  (We crushed both the Bills and the Cowboys on our way to a Superbowl Victory that year!)

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Me in my Kerry Cave  (Where you’ll find me on game day, but, remember, you’re not allowed to talk to me.)

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You get the idea.

So, it came as no surprise to me when my beautiful, kind, caring, sensitive, and smart daughter decided to draw this for me on our driveway.

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Awww….. My three loves…. The Pack, Aaron and Clay.

Not wanting to be left out , my son, who for some reason decided he was a Cowboys fan, (Despite this, I allowed him to remain my child anyway), added his own two cents.

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Anyhoo…..

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Go Pack Go!

 

 

What they don’t tell you

As I walked around the corner into the kitchen this morning, my eyes were assaulted by the sight of IP sipping his coffee while picking lint out of his belly button.  

(I apologize for the lack of picture, but I assumed NO ONE else wanted to see that.  You’re welcome.)

Me – “Oh the joys of marriage.  Why wasn’t this discussed in anywhere in the marriage manual?”

IP – “Hey Babe.  Just think how lucky you are to have all of this.  There’s a line of women out there dying to have all this that you get to enjoy everyday.”

Me – “Lucky me…..”

 

 

 

All I wanted….

Eight hours of sleep, that’s all I wanted.  Eight measly, puny, ridiculously short eight hours of sleep.

The media is always yammering about these eight hours of glorious sleep that I’m supposed to be getting every night.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Where? and How?

Maybe I can add together all the times I fall asleep at red lights or catch a quick snooze in a parking lot waiting to pick up a child.

But NOOOOO, they say these minutes don’t count towards my eight hours.  I’m supposed to get ALL of them together, in a row, uninterrupted.

Seriously?

I mean, who does this?

Do these illusive human beings really exist?

Or all they all made up like the illusion that adulthood will be this awesome phase in your life when you finally get to do what you want.

I set out to get the answers once and for all.

After a week being dragged around like a pink teddy bear stuck to a bumper, Friday night was the night for me.  I set out to cross ‘Eight hours of sleep’ off my bucket list and boy, was I ready for it.

I arrived home from night out with friends at 12:10 am.  Ok, so I’m off to a bad start.  Technically, it’s already Saturday, but I can still do this.  I set a land speed record changing in the PJs, washing and brushing what needed washing and brushing, and was under the covers by 12:15am.

A quick check of the phone and calendar verified that #1 that alarm was indeed off and #2 there was nothing looming on the schedule I had to be up for.

Oh man, THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!  Commence sleep time!

I’m out like a light.

Usual dream about needing to go to the bathroom with no where to take care of said duties.  Check.  (Don’t ask.  I don’t know what it means either.)

Unexpectedly pleasant dream where I battle Jenny McCarthy to a dual and win the affections of Donnie Wahlberg all for myself.  (Hey, in the words of Miley.  ‘It’s my dream, I can dream what I want.)

Rain, thunder, and tornado warning that I slept through.  Check.  (Sidebar ~ Pet Peeve, asking me if I heard that thunder last night.  No, no I did not.  I was sleep.)

Zzzzzzzzzz

Zzzzzzzzzz

Zzzzzzzzzz

I’m doing it.  This is happening.  I’m going to make it!

Suddenly, my eyes snap open to the vision of T-Dog staring down at me.

“Mom!?!?  Are you awake?  Are we going to have breakfast?”

I look at the clock.  7:57 am

NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO

That was it.  That was my one chance, my Halley’s Comet moment to grasp for the gold ring, and I’ve missed it.  Gone forever.

Or at least another 75 years.

 

‘Those days’

Ever had one of ‘those days’.  Of course you have.  In the past two weeks, I’ve had one of ‘those days’ 17 times.  What you say?  There are only 14 days in two weeks.  It’s not possible to have 17 of ‘those days’ in 14 days.  Well, I beg to differ and so does the Mack Truck that keeps throwing it in reverse and backing over me.

On day 37 of ‘those days’ last week, (Hey, cut me some slack.  It’s a mathematical fact that ‘those days’ reproduce like bunnies, and it was a mild winter last year.) I was driving down the street, wallowing in my misery, when I found someone having, without a doubt, a worse day than me.

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I suddenly felt better.