Tired.
That’s me in a nutshell.
I haven’t slept much this week. My mind is like the Mall of America–a lot of shit going on and no end in sight to the madness–WITHOUT the food court.
I blame my kids. Well, not blame them directly. They’re a by-product actually. OK, that’s not true. It’s totally their fault.
Anyway, I’ve got all these balls flying around my head and I can’t seem to concentrate long enough to shove them in my pants.
Wait. What?
That actually might be another story.
So…
School has started. And I have four kids–in 3 different schools–which is actually better than last year–when I had 4 kids in FOUR different schools.
I’m whittling them down. I’ve whittled. Still whittling. (is that even a word?)
I’ve been to numerous orientations, meet the teachers, and athletic meetings so far this week.
Are you bored yet? Because I am.
And last night, I reached the precipice. Read: breaking point
I was at one of my daughter’s high schools, listening to the athletic director give a Power Point presentation on “What is an Athlete?”
Right then, I should have excused myself from the auditorium because everyone knows what an athlete is. Thank-you-very-much-mister-athletic-director, can we please be dismissed, I haven’t had my daily dosage of wine yet and it’s 7 o’clock on a school night and did I mention I haven’t had my wine?
As he went on and on, his voice became more and more annoying in my head and I honestly had to fight back the urge to stand up and scream, “Shut the fuck up you moron, we know the purpose of having officials officiating the games! To officiate!” Or, I was the smartest person in a sea of dumbasses. Either way it sucked.
Finally! An hour and a half later it was over. I had survived. I was officially brain dead, but still… alive.
But! Wait! We’re not finished yet. Take THAT you really cute mom of 4 kids. (that’s what I imagined the universe was saying to me)
The athletes were to meet with their respective coaches for their own little meetings. And that’s when I first considered suicide.
But how? Run over myself with my car? Squeeze the entire tube of anti-fungal cream I had in my purse into my mouth? (is anti-fungal cream toxic?). Jab my car keys into my Carotid artery? The possibilities seemed unlikely, but doable in a pinch.
Instead of killing myself, I sent text messages to my daughter–the one in the meeting with her coach.
Are you finished yet?
Not yet.
How about now?
MOM, not yet.
I’m dying you know. You’re killing me.
I’m sorry. I’m hurrying.
I think my heart rate has slowed. I may not have a pulse.
MOM, STOP TEXTING ME. I’M GONNA GET IN TROUBLE.
Oh bite me. If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be alive. Did I mention I’m dying?
Meeting almost over.
YAY! Hurry, you may have to drive me to the hospital. I’m THAT close to death.
OMG MOM. Stop being dramatic.
Are you coming? Is he finished? What could he possibly be saying that’s more important than me being home and in the tub right now?
You’re so embarrassing.
You are.
Wow. Mature mom.
You’re grounded.
Whatever.
Are you coming? I can’t feel my arms. I think I’m having a stroke.
I’m turning off my phone.
Apparently she did just that because she didn’t respond to my last text which was, I shouldn’t have had children.
5 minutes later she was in the car and we were headed home–FINALLY! She didn’t say much to me on the drive home, which is odd, since I’m like her favorite person on the planet. Oh well, maybe she was just tired.
Like me.
Funny, I was either dreaming or I could swear someone resembling her was standing over me in the middle of the night last night whispering, die, die, die.
Kids. They’re hilarious.
