Let Me (Re)Introduce Myself

It's been several (don't make me count) years since I've updated this blog.  Recently I'm finding myself with some time on my hands, and I've been asked, repeatedly (weirdly) if I post a blog. People like me! ....or maybe they're laughing at me, it's hard to tell. Generally though, I'm in a good place with either.

So, I'm Kate, a 35 year old mom of two from St Louis, MO. Sometimes canine matchmaker, sometimes pit bull rescuer, sometimes early education substitute teacher, sometimes crafter, sometimes stay as home mom. My title has changed since the blog started.

I work primarily with pit bulls, but I'm good with most dogs. If you're looking for a rescue dog, and would like help tracking one down, drop me a line at pitdorable@gmail.com. It's free, and I'm good at finding people the dogs they're looking for, be it a pit bull, or shih-tzu. Email me and tell me what you want, or what your ice is like, and I'll find you the best fit for you. (It's free, I do it in my spare time. I like dogs.)  There, that's my personal plug. Thanks for coming!

Just kidding, I'm not done.

My children now go by A-bomb, who's 6, and Princess, who's 4. No explanation needed on either. I swore, when I had a little girl I was not going to make her a "princess." We didn't call her princess, we didn't buy her princess things. We were not going to have one of those little girls. She had other ideas.  Someday she will outgrow this stage, and we will find her a new nickname. (Probably Trouble, but let's not get ahead of ourselves)

We have 3 dogs, Vash, Wolfwood, and Scarlett.  Vash and Wolfwood our are pit bulls, and Scarlett is an irish setter/poodle mix. Because that sounded like a good idea at the time. Honestly, I don't recommend it.

I spend most of my days feeling like a total basket-case, and wondering is I look as disorganized as I feel. (The answer, undoubtedly is resounding, "yes."

SPIDER!

Mid drive home today Austin starts yelling, "SPIDER IN THE CAR! THERE'S A SPIDER IN THE CAR!! SPIDER IN THE CAR!" at which point Ella starts shrieking as if she's just been gravely injured.

I glance back, and sure as shit, there's a palm sized wolf spider booking it across the back of my car. Because I'm an awesome mom (and the children were screaming) I thought quick and dropped my just purchased apple juice on it. Which, if it didn't kill it, at least hid it from view while I finished driving home.

I spent the rest of my drive home thinking, "how the hell did that thing get in my car?! Was it ON me? Did it travel in ON ME?! DID IT TOUCH ME?!" and, "Dear lord, how the hell am I going to get it out?! It can't live in here, we'll be stuck at home forever!" (Did I mention I'm terrified of spiders? Like, completely, totally terrified of spiders. And I can hear you, while I'm typing, thinking, "Well that's why your kids are freaking out," but no. No. I DO NOT freak out about spiders around my kids. Never. So whatever this hysterical screaming is, it is all them. I calmly dropped a thing of apple juice on it while driving in 5 o'clock traffic and quietly freaked out in my head, while urging them to calm down.)

We pull into the driveway and, of course, my son starts insisting on seeing the dead spider. I let him out of his car seat, and slowly pick up the apple juice. There's the spider, all curled up in ball. Ah-HA! "See, it's dead. It's not moving." No sooner had the words left my mouth then it uncurled and started skittering across my car. Which triggered Ella, who was still in her car seat, to start screaming like Jamie Lee Curtis in a B movie. Seriously, this girl could put Ms. Lee to shame. So I just dropped the apple juice on it again... and again.. .and again, and one more time after it curled into a ball just to make sure it wasn't just pretending again. Then I had to unbuckle the completely hysterically sobbing Ella from her car seat and bring the kids inside.

The dead spider is still in my car, dead, curled up in a ball on my sweatshirt. I'm going to send my husband out to get it, because no way am I TOUCHING that thing. BUT, I managed to present a calm front to the minions.

(I looked up wolf spider pictures, so I could put one in here with the title, "dramatic reenactment, not the actual spider from my car." But it made my skin crawl so baldy I had to stop looking. Did I mention I hate spiders? Like, a lot.)

F&%*#$% Treadmill

So, I'm starting a series of workout related posts (because it's my page, that's why.)  Read them, skip them, but I'd like to share, so whatever.

WARNING: Explicit Language ahead. (That's where I say Fuck a lot)

I've been having a hard week running this week. It's humid as hell and I can't breath. So today I decided I was going to dust of my treadmill (literally) and see if inside running helped. I usually run outside on Grant's Trail. The upside of running outside is that I don't have to stare at the wall in my basement, and, no matter how tired I am, I still have to make it back to my car in order to end my workout.

Let me set the scene. It's 9am, I've had to dust my treadmill, crawl under a train table to locate the cord, and move the stack of various things residing on it.
"Hello Treadmill, so we meet again."

4 mins in I hadn't even finished my warm up, and I was bored senseless.

My acid reflux has been acting up. (in fact, I was up until 1am trying to decide if I was going to turn inside out, or throw up, as I suffered the gnawing burning in my esophagus.)  GERD and Asthma go hand in hand, if you have a flare up of one, you usually have a flare up of the other. So, not only does my stomach hurt, but I can't breath.

It took me 2 1/2 miles (and an hour) to hit my stride.

"Fuck you treadmill, I fucking hate you.

This is so boring

Fuck you asthma

Fucking reflux, fuck you, go away

Can't fucking breath.

Stomach fucking hurts.

I hate everything.

I'm going to puke.

...maybe if I puke I'll be able to breath better...

Nope, still not worth puking.

Fuck you asthma.

I'm getting off this stupid machine after a mile."

It took me a little over a mile to finish my C25K workout ap on my phone.

"Ok, I can limp and finish 2 miles...

I can maybe add some running intervals in there...

I can finish out 2 1/2 miles. That's a good end point."

At 2.6miles I decided I could totally run another 2 miles without stopping once. (Up until then the best I'd managed was 5 mins with a 4-5min walking break in between.)

I didn't make it 2 miles, but I did make it 1 mile, without stopping. It took me a full 20mins, but I "ran" 20 mins without stopping.

Then I ate chocolate for lunch.

I still feel pretty good about myself though, so fuck it.

Fathers, Mothers, and The College School

So, I was reading blogs about fathers, as Father's day is fast approaching. It got me thinking about my own father, my mother, and my schooling. I actually wandered off on a tangent more about schooling then parents. Let's see if I can work it out here.

My parents divorced when I was very young. I think it was finalized when I was three, but they had separated before that. I have no memories of my parents being married. I have no memories of them together, or a two parent, functioning household. I have some very early memories of separation and pain. My young self felt extreme loss, though I have no memories of the thing I lost.

I was raised a latchkey kid, by a single working mom and and our of state dad. Now, let's be clear, my mom moved us back to the city where she had grown up. The city where her parents, and most of her bothers and sisters still lived at the time. She returned to family, leaving my father behind. (After the divorce) My father made great efforts to see us. When we were very young he would dive (12 hours) to our city, stay in a hotel, or with a friend, and spend time with us. He would borrow a car, drive 12 hours to pick us up, turn around and drive the 12 hours back with 2 young, damaged, loud, fighting children in the car. Then he would do the whole thing again to return us. I remember long drives with the windows down, and the radio on. I feel the deepest of sympathies for him as I drive my young children twenty minutes to school. I'm not sure I could have handled the 12 hours. In trying to drive my children home without screaming insane things like, "no more talking, ever!" I am struck by how very much he loved us.

As we got older he bought us plane tickets and flew us to him. He always picked us up at the airport, he took off long periods of work. He missed meeting, he left early, he made us his priority. We never attended summer camps (though we did sometimes attend work with him) we were never, really, left with a sitter. There was him, and then my stepmom and her family. He was not a huge part of my life while I was growing up, but it was from no lack of effort on his part.

My mother. My mother was devastated by the divorce. It was not something that had ever occurred to her would happen, and she was left lost and alone with two young, damaged, loud, children. One of whom was special needs. I feel for her to. I can't imagine doing this on my own. Not for one second.  My husband is wonderful, he is a hands on dad. He is there, he is involved, he is invested. He is a great dad.

I grew up in my mother's world. It was sad, and lonely, and hard. HARD. She worked hard to provide us with all of the things she thought we should have. I think, all of the things she thought a two parent household would have. She provided well for us, and she sent us both to private schools.

My school. Oh my school. The College School.  It was a wonderful thing. I am trying to get my two children into it. Given a choice of anywhere to send them to school, that is my first pick. And here is why. My education there was, unique. We learned all of our math and english, writing, reading, science. All of the basics. We learned them well. When I moved from TCS into public school I was so far advanced they didn't have a mathematics program to put me in. I was bored. Painfully bored. Not only that, they only wanted book work. No thinking. It was a standard public school, listen, read, regurgitate. It was awful.

TCS didn't teach me math or science of social studies. TSC taught me how to learn, how to think, how to solve problems, how to live life. It taught me not only survival skills that have served me well, and probably saved my life, but problem solving skills. How to think for myself, how to learn, and how to teach myself and others information I don't fully understand - yet. They taught me how to problem solve. They taught me it was ok to get the answer wrong twenty different times, or fifty, or one hundred, as long as I went back and continued to try until I got it right - the one hundred and first time. They taught me how to devise a plan and carry it out. They taught me that it was ok if that plan didn't go the way I wanted as long as I ended up at the end goal I had chosen. And if I didn't end up at the correct end goal? Well then, I needed a new plan. It wasn't a failed attempt, or a waste of time. I had learned what didn't work. Now I could move forward with a better idea of what might work. They taught me how to look at my experiences, and process what I had learned from them. They taught me to be aware that all experiences, even those that end badly, teach us valuable lessons that can serve us well in the future. We need only be able to recognize them. They taught me to be aware of my actions and the consequences, to step forward with purpose, and to go back and try again - and again, and again.

So, yes, they have great academics, but I have always thought of it as relatively inconsequential. The fact that I can do equations, or recite history, or facts is simply a byproduct of the fact that I can apply it.   I can look at a problem and find a solution. Maybe not the best, or the fastest, or the most efficient, but one that works. Once I have a solution that works, I need only fine tune it until it is efficient.

I want my children to have that. I don't care if they can recite names or dates, or equations. I want them to be able to tell me what those names, dates, and equations mean. And I want them to tell me how those things apply to them. I don't want to hear what they have be told, I want to hear what they have learned. "Show me how you apply it." "Show me why it is important."

I am 33 years old. I am married, with two children and three dogs in a single family home. I am sure that I can do whatever needs to be done. The fact that I have never done it, and have no real idea where to start is inconsequential. I can figure it out, and I can do it well. I don't need to know how to do a certain thing, I only need to know how to figure out how to do it. This means that I know there is nothing I cannot handle and nothing I cannot conquer. I am assured that I can face anything life throws my way with grace, tenacity, and confidence, because I went to a "unique" grade school. That's pretty amazing.

And my parents? My parents are wonderful people. They have taught me well through both their achievements and their failures. They have loved me through my own achievements and failures, and given me the tools I need to conquer life whole. And they gave me an education that allowed me to appreciate it.

Every year I send both of them a father's day card or gift. My mother often played both parenting roles, but that does not diminish that I have a wonderful father that has given me so much.  There are no words to impart my appreciation to both of them. I hope if they read this what they take away from it is my love, admiration, and appreciation.

My mother, father, and I at my college graduation. 

Weekly Round Up 5/30/2013

Ok, I'm working on this blog thing. I'm challenging myself to make one post a week, even if I have nothing to post. Tonight is Thursday, it's 9pm, and I'm the only one in the house awake. Rocking some Black Keys, and you get a weekly round up.

Saturday I did crafts with my kids. I hate crafts. I hide any art supplies gifted to my kids. LOATH them.   Inevitably my kids end up yelling, screaming, and fighting over whatever - even if there are 700 identical whatevers, they both want the same one.  BUT, it was raining, and I've had this big old craft box, and I decided I was going to be a not sucky mom, and do some damn crafts with my kids.

We got new bedding. There may have been an incident that prompted the new bedding. It may or may not have involved a dog sneaking into the bedroom, climbing onto the bed, and peeing in the middle of it, then sneaking out of the bedroom, all while we were watching TV.  There may have been an incident where I climbed into bed, and went, "wait, why is this wet?" and proceeded to pat different areas of the bed trying to figure out the wet spot on the sheet. I may have realized we only had one comforter for our new mattress, which was, luckily, covered in a waterproof mattress protector. I may, or may not have, then spent a very cold night cursing every living thing in my house.  It might have caused me to realize the king sized comforter will never dry in our dryer, and will have to be hung, for 12hours, to dry. 

It may have been that, weeks after this hypothetical very cold night, my husband let our pittie sleep in out bed, and I woke up with the worst sinuses I've had in a months. It's likely, I caught a cold the same night, and the dog was not responsible for the severe sinus and bronchial infection that followed (for which I am still on antibiotics.) 

My husband thought it was funny I had gotten up, and Vash hadn't followed me to go outside.
I thought my response was funny.
I was alone. I got text silence for several hours. 

I thought it would be a good idea to wash all the bedding though, just in case. Since I had already experienced it taking over 1 full day to dry said bedding, I decided for my sanity, and the safety of all those that live in my house, we needed a second comforter. We needed two. So I could wash one, hang it to dry, and still have one to use. 

I like the new bedding though, so I'm calling it a win. 

Soothing

Sunday we BBQ'd and had a couple of friends over. About half an hour in I had a random, surprise asthma attack that floored me, and left me outside, red face, eyes watering, choking with my inhaler while my husband, and the neighbor, asked if they should call someone.  The little one stayed up until some time after 10pm, the bigger one went to bed around 1am.  I crawled into bed around 2am. The neighbor went home around 3am? and at least one person slept on our couch. For which I call the whole thing a win. 

Monday, after our overnight guest left, my husband decided he's building a pergola over our back deck, and took the kids to his mom's for dinner. I stayed home, already having to have used my inhaler twice for nothing I decided it would be safer if I stayed away from cats. 

Tuesday we all got up late for school. I dropped the kids off an hour late. An hour after that I got a call that my little Helli had a fever of 102 and I had to go pick her up. 

Wednesday Helli was feeling much better, but banned from school, so we hung out. So far Demon seems fine. I managed to run on Tuesday before I got the call about Helli. I managed to take Helli and walk all three dogs Weds. Today I had my chiropractic adjustment and then sat around like a lump eating crummy food. Tomorrow I shall run again.  That's the plan anyway.

And when I say run, it should read, "run."  I'm doing the couch to 5k app. Interval running training. I figure it was a good way to get back into things after four months of pneumonia. I was halfway through week 5 when I was struck with bronchitis again. So I sent myself back to week 3, and I'm going to try and work my way back. (I just do one a day, since I try and run 5 days a week, I work through their "weeks" pretty quickly) even then, I can still walk faster then I run. I'm working on it though. 

My kids have been an hour, or more, late for school all week. I just can't bring myself to wake demon up when he sleeps in. I refuse to encourage him to get out of bed before 8am if I don't have to. They start their summer camp program the 1st. I'm just going to call it a win, and hope he continues to sleep in. 

I'll leave you with Johnny, he greets all visitors on the way down to our basement. 

What else is there to say?

Parenting by Roseanne Barr

We are a generation raised by single parents, working parents, absentee parents, drug addicted parents, alcoholic parents, no parents. We are a generation raised by one who changed the world, rewrote all the rules, and then got a little lost. We were raised by a generation that was supposed to have it all, and, in trying for "it all" ended with bits of everything, and all of nothing. We are a generation of people who learned to parent from TV shows. The television was our babysitter, our friend, our constant companion. Some of us learned all we knew of intact family life from the TV.
Now we have become parents. And where has that left us? Always looking, always searching. We're a generation of parents convinced there is a right answer. There is a right solution. If we can just follow the recipe, just do everything right, then, and only then, our children will turn out ok. We are forever falling short. In the eyes or ourselves, and often other parents. We watch other parents like it's a TV show. We feel free to judge them like we would characters on a show. We are, somehow, convinced that, even though we can't figure out our own lives, we know the right answer for someone else's. We know what they should have done, what they should be doing.
Any parent (couple, person) who looks like they have it all together is missing something. They've dropped something. They're repressing something. No one can have it all, and do it all perfectly. We know this. We watched our parents try, and fail, to have it all. We have accepted that we can't. So either we do a few things rather well, or we do everything sort of ok. I have learned to accept that, sometimes, everyone surviving through the day is enough. Sometimes, it's not a matter of beautiful treasured moments, or loving every minute, of being aware that these early years will pass quickly, that I will look back some day longingly for a time when my children were my constant shadows. Some days it's simply a matter of managing not to kill each other before bedtime. Some days it's managing not to get in the car and run away.
Some days all we do is survive, and that has to be ok. It has to be ok, because it's the best I can do. We don't have beautiful days, or a beautiful life. We have beautiful moments interspersed in our daily chaos. We have "I love you"s at the end of the day instead of "I hate you"s. Sometimes.
I was talking to an old friend last night, and said I was doing, "parenting by Roseanne Barr." I realized how true it was. This isn't Leave it to Beaver folks. Ozzy and Harriet we are not. This is Roseanne Barr style parenting. In the trenches, survival parenting. This is harsh truth full of love, both soft and tough. This is realistic expectations, voided delusions. This is reality on a base level. There are no maids here, no cooks, housekeepers, or nannies. June Cleaver doesn't live here. We see the Brady Bunch, and the Cosby's, and all those other loving two parent households with their angelic children as the sham they are. This is not TV. This is real my friends, and my kids will pay the price for every single fuck up I make.
I swear. Sometimes there's spanking. There's yelling. There's punishments. Children get sent to their rooms. There is no early parole for crying. There is no magic word to fix broken items, or broken hearts. The house is dirty, the dishes aren't washed. I'm not sure I can define dusting, there are piles of laundry, and there are unhappy children. I'm supposed to end the list with love. I'm supposed to say, and there is a lot of love. Or, "my house is messy, but my children are happy." Bullshit. My children aren't happy. They hate me as much as they love me. It's my job to raise them into responsible adults, not entitled assholes. It's my job to keep them ALIVE to see adulthood. It's my job to teach them how to be a good person, even if it's not what is going to make them the happiest person. It's my job to teach them about delayed gratification, that you can't always have what you want, that doing the right thing doesn't always pay off, that being a good person can work against you, and yet, that you have to do it anyway. It is my job. And it's a hard job. No one appreciates the person who teaches us we can't have what we want. It's a thankless job. A frustrating job, an aggravating job.
Roseanne was always my favorite TV mom. I always thought she had it right. That there was truth in her show. I thought, "that's what it's like. It's not neat, and tidy, and happy. it's dirty and messy, and hard, and you hope that, at the end of the day, you've done enough to make it ok. And that's as good as it gets." This is as good as it gets. It turned out ok for her kids, right? They grew up to be ok. Not famous movie stars, or rocket scientists, but ok nonetheless. Except it isn't truth. It's a pretend world. Her pretend children grew up to have pretend ok lives. What will my real children grow up to have? I hope that if I love them enough. If I just love them as much as I can every single day, that it will be ok. That they will survive. That they will forgive me later. That we may not always be happy, but we will always be secure in our love for each other. That they will always know I'm here, to kiss a scrape, help clean up a mess, or kick their butts when they're out of line.
I am that friend too. I'm not everyone's cup of tea. I will call you on your bullshit. I will tell you what you don't want to hear, because I think that's real love. It's easy to tell people what they want to hear, to let them do what they want to do. It's easy to not argue, to bend, to enable. It's hard to tell the truth. It's hard to stand your ground. It's hard to tell your children they cannot have what they want. It's hard to listen to them cry. It's heartbreaking to be told they hate you. Easy love is cheap though. It doesn't take work, it doesn't take dedication. It just requires you to give yourself away. To turn yourself inside out to meet other people's demands. It allows people to believe that all they have to do is be difficult enough and they will get their own way. It allows children to believe they are entitled to their own way. This is cheap friendship and bad parenting. The world rarely cares what you are entitled to. It is mean, and cruel, and heartless, regardless. It is hard, it requires work. Lots of work. Sometimes people who work the hardest end up with the least. There is no reason for it, no justification. It's the luck of the draw. You can do everything right, and still fail, and it has nothing to do with you. The world doesn't care. Life doesn't care how hard you work, or what you deserve for your efforts. You get lucky, or you don't. But you still have to work. You still have to try. You still have to be a good person. You still have to treat others with kindness, even if life happens to be shitting on you. Because it's shitting on them too. Because we don't get to regulate anyone else's happiness just because they got lucky, even if they're a douchebag.
Or maybe, probably, I have especially difficult children. There are some people that will read this and marvel that I have such a hard time with it. That will wonder what my problem is. To them I say, "you don't have my children. And you don't have the right answer. You just got lucky. Be thankful and leave me, and the other other's of 'spirited' children, alone."
So there will be yelling, there will be screaming, there will be crying. There will undoubtedly be cussing. I will contemplate fleeing my home for another country and never coming back. There will be messes, and dirty dishes, and toys. There will be dog fur, and dust, and even spanking. But I will not flee. I will always come back, because I love my children. I love my family. I love my stupid, stupid dogs. And I will continue to hope that, at the end of it all, love has been enough.
We judge ourselves, and each other too harshly, too readily. We aren't a sitcom. Let's try less Brady Bunch and more Roseanne Barr. Let's pretend less and be more honest. This isn't a competition, it's a marathon. There are no prizes for coming in first, you just need to cross the finish line alive.

Yup, that looks right.

Are We Done Yet?

Demon was up all night last night puking. Hellion was up all night coughing and choking. They were both up at 6am, despite me giving them milk and trying to convince them to lay in my bed with me. (Turned into a giggle fest, which would have been cute, except for the migraine, and the no sleep, on top of the sinus infection)   So then they were whiney and cranky, and fighting all morning.

They had their physicals (which we've been putting off for Helli for a YEAR because she's been SICK for a YEAR) today, at nap time. 2pm. I managed to get a shower... of some sort this morning, then they wanted a bath, so they got a bath, with splashing, and screaming, and fighting, and then lunch. Then it took us 20mins to get together and out the door.  (after they were dressed and stuff. This was just sweatshirts & shoes) So, to the doctors. Both kids are being freaks. Demon does half the eye test then melts down. So I have to go try to comfort him, which sends Helli into a meltdown. So now I'm bribing them. "if you just finish the eye test I'll take you to Target and buy you a toy? And a pretzel? and a soda. ....the biggest toy you want. ANYTHING you want."  Nope. No eye test, "I can't see it. i can't see. I don't know."  Back into the room. The ear test beepy thing he flipped about. He was crawling around under the exam table, and kept hitting his head, and screaming, while I was trying to talk to the doctor, about why I'm worried he's a freak...under the exam table... yelling, "I'm a bunny mama!"

THEN it was SHOT TIME! We had to hold him down, like, REALLY hold him down. Then he screamed bloody fucking murder, and cried for 20mins. (Helli didn't scream OR cry)  It was so bad one of the nurses came in and brought him 4 batman stickers just to make him stop screaming. Ok, so, ok. BUT, he did get the shots, and didn't break anything, and strictly speaking, followed most of the instructions. (Plus, Helli was an angel) So, off to Target we go. He wants a Batman mask AND a Batman toy. Ok. (the batman toys they had were pretty lame, so ok, we got 2) Helli was adorable. She kept picking stuff out, and I told her she could only have 2, so she'd go put something back (where it went) and get the new thing, put it in the cart, repeat.

Ok, so, we had our toys, Helli had been through like 6, and had 2 in the cart. Then she melts down. She wants the ball, but in the cart, but with her, but in the cart, but with her.... then she wants me to carry her, and sits down in the middle of Target and screams. Refuses to get up. I walk away, Demon keeps going back to get her. I grab her a small lamp for her room, (Because she needs one, she's decided no more sleeping in the dark)  So Demon has to have one, fine. Helli is 4 aisles over, won't get any closer. I go to get the lamps low wattage bulbs, and they're both walking into other customers, staying two aisle away, being freaks. Fine, we're leaving. I finally give up, go pick up Helli, put her over my shoulder, and... yup, yup... she's pooped. That's what she's been doing. The diapers and wipes are in the car. Ok, no big deal.

As we check out and Demon wants his pretzel and soda. Ok, I DID say he could have one. Ok. So we take poop girl over to get a pretzel and soda. It, of course, takes forever. They have to cook the pretzels or something.  Finally get the pretzels, and we're gathering our stuff to take it out to the car, and her soda hits the floor. (I think she dropped it) entire small soda, on the floor. So I'm trying to clean it up, Demon is yelling about the spilled soda. FINE. So I clean most of it up, THEN the guy shows up with the mop. Fine, it wasn't his kid who dropped the soda.  I gather the pretzel, one soda, my bottle of water, put Helli in the cart, with the pretzels and my water. We walk out to the car.

I open the trunk, grab my bag from the backseat, Let Demon in the backseat. Go back to the trunk, Helli dumps the pretzels in the parking lot. Fine. OK. I collect all the bits, take the stuff out of one of our target bags, and put the trash in, get a diaper, the package of wipes, and lay Helli in the trunk. Tear pullup (we're working on sitting on the potty) open wipes... and they're frozen, fucking FROZEN SOLID.  So I'm trying to yank something out of this package, a wipe, 12, stuck together, fine, fucking SOMETHING to wipe her ass with. I get a clump, break the wipes package.

When I go to Target I park on the far side of the parking lot, and pull through, so it's easier to leave (and I don't have to back my behemoth up if it's busy)  So, as I'm standing there with my kids bare ass in the freezing cold, trying to scrub it with a clump of frozen wipes, on a day from hell, this car pulls up behind me. But since I'M there, and the CART is there, she can't pull all the way into the spot. SO SHE WAITS. She just fucking SITS there, WAITING, while I clean Helli, collect the trash, put Helli in her seat, unload the cart, return the cart. I swear to GOD I almost ripped her a new one. An entire fucking parking lot and you need THIS SPACE, RIGHT NOW?! Forget the fact that BOTH spots on either side of us are EMPTY. We finally make it home. Open the toys, look at everything. Demon has a tantrum, and tells me he's going to bed. FINE. GO TO BED.

Helli crawls into my lap, head butts me a lot, and makes herself comfy. 5minutes later, she's snoring.  I got put her in her bed and realize Demon HAS actually gone to bed. He's sound asleep. At 4:30.

Now, at 7:30 they're both up and bright eyed. Yay!

My darling hell spawn

***UPDATE****

And now, just to complete my day, it's 9:45 and Helli is covered in a rash. Is the rash from the vaccines? The Augmentin? Who knows! It's like rash roulette.

Because, why the hell not after today?