Friday, May 18, 2018

If a tree falls

Sometimes I'm the worst. No, really, don't try to stop me from saying this.


Wow. Really? No one? 
That hurts, guys. I guess there's no point in going on with this. I'm going to anyway. I'm the worst, what can I say?

Despite the many protests from the audience I just received, I must admit that sometimes I am the absolute worst person. Okay, not really, I'm not a mass murderer or a puppy killer or a fan of Nickelback. But, in the past, if my cup got tipped at just the right time I may have been known to slam a door or crush my childrens' hopes and dreams with just a word. Hypothetically.

Unrelated: I may be starting to see why no one tried to stop me earlier..... 

But there's something that I've been wanting to get off my chest. Deep breath. And go.

When the kids were little, Israel the eldest, like Gandalf the Grey- very distinguished, would be getting his breakfast or possibly even helping the younger two get their breakfast. At this time they were all under the age of 5, so we could receive WIC, therefore, having gallons upon gallons of milk in our house. And even with 3 children, drinking THAT much milk is a challenge. So (drumroll please, mommy moment of the millennium coming) I would make Israel check and see if the milk was good by tasting it. 

*Hides my face in shame* Don't look at me.

But, I mean, I didn't want to taste nasty curdled milk! Can you imagine?! *nudges you* Israel can, know what I mean??? 

TO BE FAIR, nothing makes you feel more worthless or useless than being a mom. Why do we even speak, moms? Nobody hears us. I will literally repeat everything I have said today and yesterday and for the past 5 years over again until I'm dead. And the trash will still be on the floor and the dishes will still be scattered around the house and my daughter will still look at me directly after I have answered a question that SHE asked and ask me again. Instantly. As though I never answered her. And the daily routine will be written down, talked about, and stapled onto their faces and they still won't do it. 

And my anxiety will rise and my life crumbles. And who cares about curdled milk anyway?

*Shouts from the rooftops* I will no longer feel bad about the curdled milk!! (Actually, I probably will. That's something that you can't untaste. Poor guy.)

And the age old question remains: If a mom talks to anybody, does anybody really talk? 

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