A Winters Day and Stair Wine

Written exactly a week ago, when my blogging app decided to no longer work although I totally pay to have the legit version. So that’s cool I guess. Insert a real side-eye here because that shit is stupid. 

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This, on a day when the husband is not located in a midwestern state, and the school texts at 5 something  to alert there is no school, and then after you drift back to sleep the dog wakes you to go outside, so as you sleepily tread back up the stairs after letting her do her business outside you realize she deficated in the middle of the off-white carpeted hallway at some point in the stormy night and somehow you didn’t step in it, praise 7 pound 4 ounce Baby Jesus. 

And then after you have a leisurely morning snuggling and watching Brave with your best school-aged girl snuggled in bed while gazing out at the heaps at snow you realize you still don’t know how to use the snow blower.

And then after you laughingly brush off your neighbors exceedingly generous offers to plow for you, you realize you never did get around to purchasing water resistant gloves for yourself. Oversized dude gloves from 1992 it is!

Gotta love the end-of-the-drive plow pile. 😂😭😂

The after 👇🏻, in which Brett’s response was, “Nice”.Whatever. I personally have never seen a more beautiful site. 

And as we approach bedtime, Emma just asked me why there was an almost-empty glass of wine on the stairs. She should be asking herself why there isn’t a glass of wine on every staircase of every parent of the EA school district this evening.

This kid is done with today

So, Fakebook. We all do it. Today, I just can’t. Saturday is Tommy’s birthday party (deliberately very small this year because, ugh. SO sick of parties.) and I need to at least do bare-minimum prepping. Hang the decor today so tomorrow I don’t have to think about it. 
 Figure out where I’m buying pre-made sandwiches Saturday morning so I can check that off my list.

But the field across the street is spreading manure for easily the 10th time since November and my entire house smells like cow shit. I’m on my period and my back hurts and I did 73 effing burpees at the gym two days in a row in kickboxing (whoops) so my butt/thighs hurt too and my attention span is that of a gnat. 

Andplusalso:

He doesn’t want Dunkin Donuts. No wait, he does. Aunt Bridget! No, she’s the worst because Zach isn’t there. But Aunt Bridget! Zach! Wait, no Zach. So no Aunt Bridget! She’s the worst! Where’s the donuts we didn’t go get?! Don’t go pee! Hold me! Don’t pick me up!

*spits on the floor*

*puts salami on his head*

Lloyd aka Green Ninja is too quiet. Garmadon is too loud. The vacuum (not running in that moment) is too loud. The dog is snoring. The dog isn’t cuddling.

AND THEN

>>I go upstairs to get ibuprofen, he follows to unroll toilet paper.

Basically this kid is for sale. And by sale, I mean I will pay you to take him.