military

WMWE (but we had oatmeal for breakfast)

I am truly the Worst Military Wife Ever. You think I’m kidding. HA.  ha h ha, ha ha, HA, HA! A good MW would not be more focused on finding a theme for her blog than on her husband’s plight with a superior officer while in the third week of a 28-day annual training away from home. A really good MW would remember all the little acronyms for these things. I am not a good MW. A good MW would “keep the home fires burning” or some such shit. Again, not a good MW. I’m tired, cranky, coming to the end of 4 straight days with Thing 1 and Thing 2, who have refused to nap even though they are exhausted, and continue to pop-up like whack-a-moles at 6:20 every freaking morning no matter what time they go to bed. If bedtime is 8:30pm, 6:20am *pop*!

“Mommy! Mommy!” whispers Thing 1. “Can I watch cartoons in the living room? I’ll put it on mute, I promise.”

She is 5 going on who knows how old. She speaks like my grandmother used to (“oh mom, isn’t that clever!”) and reads everything put in front of her. She adores the dictionary. No shit. And she prefers muting the tv so she can read the closed-captions on her cartoons. Okay, so it’s usually the cooking channel, but she does watch PBS and Phineus and Ferb. Apparently she only appreciates children’s programming that also appeals to stoned adults. Go figure… Sometimes she changes the language so she can watch the tv in french. No one in our family speaks French.  I have no idea.

“Fine. Just don’t wake up your brother.” 

Thing 1 and Thing 2 still share a bedroom. We only have two, so really, not too many options there. She’s 5 he’s 3, and why do children require private bedrooms in the first place? Answer: They don’t. But that’s a whole other talk show.

Inevitably, Thing 2 is up within minutes. Whack-a-mole. 

So mommy’s tired. Lucky mommy with RX dexadrine and the recreational know-how to manipulate for optimal productivity without adverse side effect is almost at her limit. In oh so many ways. The laundry. The dishes. And now the exciting task of scraping the masticated crackers off of the pocket door that Thing 2 felt such disdain for earlier today. And the carpet, and the wall, and the rest of the shit it got on. I love that boy, but good christ! Crackers? really son? Saltine, graham, AND animal?