Tattoos and Drool

Screw you, Ashton

I would like to say right now that if I’m being punked, you can all STOP IT. Stop it right now. Because I totally won’t give you the comedy you’re looking for, I’ll probably just throw myself on the floor sobbing and screaming KILL MEEEE and you’ll all start backing up slowly towards the nearest exit. And then you’ll just have to pack your cameras up and trash all the footage and find another victim because it will be that sad and pathetic. I also might punch Ashton in donkey omelets and then you’d want to sue me but I’m really not worth anything. So yeah. NOT WORTH YOUR TIME.

And if that’s the case, don’t you have enough footage by now? I mean really. It’s only a half-hour show.

Telling the cats to piss in the rice box I made for the boys? Really not all that hilarious, sorry to say. Especially since I didn’t realize that’s what had taken place until I was absentmindedly running my hands through the box, discovered it was damp, and SMELLED MY FREAKIN’ HAND. Yeah, that was really awesome, as was the struggle to hold down the vomit as I furiously scrubbed the skin off my fingers. I can’t remember if this was before or after I had a kid poop his pants while the other kid was flipping a full-size mattress on its side in order to use the box spring as a trampoline.

The kid’s reoccurring ear infection? Not quite sure how you pulled that one off. Pretty brill. And excellent timing – you know, making him sick on a Saturday, plus a 5-day course of antibiotics, equals getting sick again shortly after they run out. Which is, OH, another Saturday. Fantastic. Now we get to do ear drops. Twice a day, for ten days. Which is totally my favorite activity ever, what with the bucking and the kicking and the screaming at an ungodly volume. I can’t wait to repeat that highly enjoyable task TWENTY TIMES.

And the four-year-old. Can’t leave him out, right? It was awesome being confronted by his teacher yesterday after class to learn that he had yelled maniacally and thrown a pair of scissors at her head. That’s not at all humiliating. And over what? Ah. Not wanting to do the art project. Completely valid reason for a violent tantrum.

The same day that happened, he also came up to me and was all “Mom, look at my hair!” and I was like what could you possibly have put in it now and he goes “It’s water!” and I’m all please don’t tell me from where and he says “It’s from the toilet!” And I was like, hell no, I did not have a child ripped from my vagina just so he could go and dunk his head in turd water. Do-over, please.

But the cruelest part of all? Dealing with the pee rice and the ear goop and the scissor-throwing while also having a baby who DOES NOT SLEEP. I am not lying when I say I would rather have hot needles stabbed under my fingernails than deal with an infant who is fighting sleep to the death and winning. ‘Cause see, too much of that leads to tweeting things like this:

So in closing. I’ll take these kids back and these ones too and also this perfect baby please. Now get out of my house.