Friday morning we awoke to the most pleasant of surprises. A big old pile of doggy vomit. After a quick check on the pouch to make sure she was okay, the dry heaving began. By me. There are few things more disgusting then piles of chunky dog puke to start your day. Hero Hubby saved the day by cleaning up the vile mess. I did my part by scowling at the dog and lighting vanilla scented candles. Why must dogs eat piles of their own poop? Don’t they know it’s going to make them yak?
The rest of Friday remained uneventful.
I kept the vanilla candles burning.
Saturday rolled on past at the speed of lightening.
Enter Sunday, the day the stench of doggy vomit was over powered by the rancid stink of parent fail. Let me back up a bit. Hubby had been working all weekend, so I was running our ship solo. The weekend had consisted of running kids to birthday parties, running mundane errands, shopping, cleaning and the dreaded laundry. Nothing out of the ordinary. What was out of the ordinary was the ridiculous insomnia I’ve been experiencing. The worrying about all that I have on my plate that was simply not going to get done, and the craptastic conversation I had recently had with both a girlfriend and a co-worker. Girl drama sucks no matter how old you are. Throw in a headache, a rib out of place, and we have the possibility of the perfect storm.
The perfect storm arrived in the form of a teenage girl.
I took my teen girl shopping and she literally dragged her feet through the mall…it wouldn’t have more difficult if I’d been dragging her through the previously mentioned dog vomit. That was fun. later, asked her to let the dog out, she ignored me. Requested she grab me a piece of paper, she once again found away around it… in a perfectly normal teenage style. Showed her some new nail polishes I picked up for us to play with in Florida. You know for some good Mama/Daughter bonding time. When she asked if she could use them right then and there, my quite unreasonable answer was, not right now, they are for Florida. So ten minutes later when I walked into the kitchen and saw her painting her ten little digits in Gone Gonzo blue with polka dots….I was over the top mad and truthfully more then a little sad.
I snapped, slammed a door or two and stomped my way upstairs before the snapping could turn to screaming, and slamming doors turn into tears. PMS? The straw that broke the camels back? Headache? Rib pain? I don’t know. There was simply no excuse for my ridiculous over reaction and blatant parent fail.
Slamming that door did not make me feel better, but truthfully, it didn’t make me feel worse. Maybe this is why toddlers throw themselves on the floor and scream their bloody heads off. RELEASE.
Sigh. After a
Mommy time out couple of minutes I came back downstairs…the smell of my parent fail stinking up the kitchen. I explained to my sullen faced daughter that my stompy slammy nearly crying reaction was not about nail polish. Well it was about nail polish, but it was so much more. We talked about mutual respect and hugged it out. I think she heard me.
She smiled, then we painted our nails.
No one ever said surviving life in the suburbs would be easy.
Feel free to send coffee and wine.
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