I've seriously began to master sleeping wakefulness. You know what that is? When you're so damn tired, you're wide ass awake.
I've mentioned before that I get asked so many questions. So goddamn many questions. And, as an added bonus, my son is now asking all of the questions. All of the time. "Mama! Mama! Mama!" until I look at him.
But, enough whining on my part. What have I accomplished these last several months? Well, my son is still not potty-trained. In fact, he could give no more fucks about pooping his pants than he would about picking his nose. It just doesn't bother him one freaking bit. And I wish I could convince him that... well, sitting in your own shit is gross. And honestly, humans should be born with the ability to wipe their own asses. But, I guess that would eliminate one of the most effective forms of birth control there is: a poopy, runny, blowing-it-out-the-bottom-of-the-diaper diapers.
Hell, next spawn of mine, I'll just throw all of those diapers in other people's directions, and begin counting them as points. Whoever racks up the most points wins ... something clever. I'm not sure yet. I'll have to bookmark that idea for one day when I'm not taping my eyes open with scotch tape that I should be using to wrap the Christmas presents with. Cause, yes, I'm already wrapping mother fucking Christmas presents. I wish those bitches wrapped themselves. (Yes, damnit, that IS what she said!)
Kudos to the poor saps that spend all day long wrapping presents for lazy sons-of-bitches like myself that don't want to wrap themselves. The bitch of it all? My first present looks like Ray Charles wrapped it, but by the time I'm done with all of the measuring and cutting and folding and taping and all of the other bullshit, it looks like I channeled my inner Martha fucking Stewart and wrapped it like a pro. Then, twelve months later, Ray Charles has struck again!
Maybe, one day, I will mature enough that I won't use almost an entire roll of tape wrapping a single present, but part of me enjoys watching my dad search each corner of the present for a spot where he can easily start to open it. I make it into Fort Knox of Scotch Tape and just sit back and watch him struggle. It's pretty damn entertaining. He eventually wisens up and will just slice it with his pocket knife, unknowingly and almost inevitably maiming the present inside.
Most recently, my husband informed me that I suck at buying presents. So, I've almost decided on just throwing in the fucking towel and getting him a gift card. Is it a cop out? Sure. But, he wouldn't have room to say I didn't buy him the right thing, now would he? No, I'm kidding. I could never just give him a gift card. I'll just get the wrong version of something and watch it sit on a shelf for 10 months before he finally finds some reason to interact it with it for four hours, only to put it on a different shelf in the top of the closet in the corner underneath all of the clothes he's thinking about donating, Just kidding, those clothes aren't on the shelf, they are piled in the bottom of the fucking closet!!! But, alas, I love him more than life itself.
Here's to you babe. After all, you're the only one who reads this blog!
