Gateway Drugs

For whatever reason AD and the RM have both been exceptional pains in my ass these past couple of weeks. Maybe it's spring fever, the heady rush of having a big girl bed, or maybe the Klonopin I sprinkle on their Crispix is out of date - I just don't know. I do know that they are wearing my sorry self out. AD, that sweet, well-mannered thing, has for some reason been Surly Shirley lately - moody and mouthy as hell, correcting everything I say and using a tone of voice just dripping with an implied "fuck you" no matter the topic. I told her to clean her room the other day and her response was to flip the clothes hamper and throw laundry all over the floor, like she's the freaking Wendy O. Williams of second grade. She also asked me if I was going to have another baby, and when I said no, why, she very pointedly stared at my stomach and said "oh, no reason...but...are you sure?"

The Red Menace has been her usual self, just more so. She alternates between evil and angelic, but is always weirder and more embarrassing than you think should be possible. Recently we were in Publix strolling through the aisle with the, ahem, feminine products, and she points at the Tampax display and yells "Mom. Mom! ELISE PIPER. Look! It's those STICKS you put in your BOTTOM!" Really loving that use-my-whole-name-phase thing, especially at times like those. I could hear people laughing all the way over in Produce, and the guy stocking the toilet paper was falling apart to the point that he had to lean against the shelf. We had another precious moment a few days ago; I was sitting on the couch when she snuggled up to me, put her little hands on my face and said in the sweetest voice you've ever heard "I never ever want you to be happy again." I said "well, that's not very nice at all!" She just maniacally giggled, so I threw some holy water on her and she backwards crab-walked up the wall and out the window.

 

The RM's most recent class picture. She's a keeper!

 

It's times like these when I just cannot figure out how in the hell I got to this place. I'm still kind of amazed that, should the mood strike, I could walk around nude and eat nothing but pudding cups and vodka tonics - THAT'S my idea of being an adult, not pulling Mastermind pegs out of a child's nasal/oral/anal canal. I should be cleaning my own vomit out of my hair, not someone else's. And it doesn't help that JHP travels so much for work; not only am I often dealing with this hydra on my own, but some days the closest thing I get to having an adult conversation is talking legos with the nine-year-old in our carpool. He's a great kid, but a woman needs more than the new thousand-piece Death Star set.

 

When JHP is home he can become equally overwhelmed and befuddled over how things have unfolded. Every now and then when someone's foot is stuck in the ice machine or someone else is cramming her Tinkerbell wings in the toilet, he'll just look at me and mutter "I just wanted to touch your boobs. That was all I wanted, just to touch them. I do not understand." I explained to him that there are probably quite a few people for whom boobs are a gateway drug to a variety of life-long commitments. And as for my personal boobs...well. That's another story altogether. When AD was around 2 years old, she was hanging out with me while I was changing clothes; I took my shirt off and she pointed to my formidable cleavage and said "Mommy's bottom!" When I took my bra off, she clapped and said "Mommy's arms!" After I told JHP that sad tale he got a faraway look in his eyes and whispered "I miss Mommy's fists..." Once the RM came along and was General U.S. Grant to my body's Vicksburg, I got that shit tightened up, people. At the first meeting with my plastic surgeon he asked me to take off my shirt and show him what was doing under there. I told him "you should know that there was a time when this would have been considered a great privilege for you"; I am not sure he believed me.

 

 

this is not me. But you can see these from my house, and Russia.

 

Don't get me wrong, I adore my children, I truly do, even when they take a Sharpie to the shower curtain or hide leftover spaghetti in the sock drawer. It's just that sometimes I'd like to call my mom and have her come pick me up and take me home so I can finish my English homework and watch "Moonlighting". Since that's not feasible, looks like it's pudding and vodka for dinner. Come on by!