Tweet Sometimes, after a particularly long, hard day at work, I'll come home, walk into the house, and, upon entering, attempt to flee again. Because these people are so wanting of my attention.
The Bean will run up rambling about how even though her birthday is a couple months from now, she thought about it and what she wants to do is ask for money so she can summer out on the East Coast, like every other struggling middle class teenager. At the same time Dotter will be broadcasting the fact that we need to bring a salad to the banquet dinner tomorrow night, which leaves me wondering what we possibly do that requires attendance at a banquet dinner and a salad? Cletus will be screeching at the top of his lungs, "Mom-mEEE! Mom-mEEE! Moooo! Moooo! Twak-ta? Twak-ta?" while clawing at my legs and Big V will be creeping up from behind, wrapping his arms around me and pushing his man parts into my backside like I'm not going to notice and muttering something about how he did a job today and it involved tile. Just like every other job he does every other day that involves tile and I'm standing there seven seconds into my return home praying why can't they just let me put my purse down first? and please let there be a bottle of wine already chilling in the fridge.
Not that I don't love my family or the attention they shower on me but it's kind of a lot all at once, you know? I'm thinking maybe if they attacked me one at a time, with several seconds in between to catch my breath, I'd be able to handle it better.
That's why you won't catch me badmouthing Victoria Beckham for never smiling in photos. Because I understand. The poor woman has three kids - and another on the way, a husband, and all that paparazzi hounding her every second of the day. And I'm pretty sure that no matter how many times David offers to 'help get the kids ready' she's still stuck answering stupid questions like which shirt should I put him in? and where do we keep the hair gel?
I'm just waiting for the day she blows up and screams, "All of you - shut up! All I'm asking for is six bloody seconds of silence so I can collect my thoughts!"
It doesn't sound that bad in an accent. Really. It's kind of a cute breakdown when you read it Brit Style. That's why when I have my breakdown I'm totally going British all the way. Which I almost had to do last night when Big V offered to wash the dishes in order to help me out but instead spent two hours complaining about everything.
"Where's the soap?"
Under the sink in the exact same spot it's been returned to for the past three years.
"Well, why to we keep it there? That's stupid. We should just keep it on the counter by the sink so we don't have to keep taking it in and out of the cupboard."
"What is this? Ketchup? Who didn't rinse their plate?"
That was your plate. From the corndog you had late last night.
"Well, I've seen other plates that aren't rinsed off. People need to start rinsing off their plates."
"Darnit! Where's that thing to wash the glasses?!"
You mean the baby bottle brush?
"I don't know what it's called... I use it to wash the glasses."
I threw it away last week because it was gross and falling apart.
"Well, I guess I can't wash these glasses then." [starts taking cups & glasses out of kitchen sink and tossing onto counter, dripping wet]
Hmmm, whatever did they do before the creation of the bottle brush? Surely they wouldn't have stuck the washrag into the glass itself to wash it.
And this was about where I lost it ... (in British Accent): Ah, yes, that was quite helpful to me indeed. What would I have done without all the bitching and moaning? Perhaps tomorrow night you bathe the baby, help Dotter with her math homework, cook dinner, drive the Bean to town because she forgot she needed poster board, put another load of laundry in the washing machine, comb the snarls out of Dotter's hair without smacking her when she starts screaming at the top of her lungs, make sure Cletus doesn't stick his tongue in the electrical outlet - again, run to the bank to get some cash to pay Lawnmower Timmy and I'll do the bloody dishes!
(Did you read it with an accent? If not, go back and read it again. I won't sound nearly as awful, I promise.)
All I'm saying is that if I had walked out the door and into the flashing lights of the paparazzi I wouldn't have been gleefully smiling either.