If I hear one more repetition of “Can we…,” “He just….,” “She won’t….,” “Tel them to….,” “But why do I have to….,” “That’s not fair, I want to….,” “That isn’t the kind of…. that I want,” or “It’s my turn, not ….’s turn,” I will seriously pop a blood vessel and develop a twitch.
I’m like 6 weeks behind on Project Life, I just want to get these pictures laid out.
Or marathon watch all of Season Three of Pretty Little Liars.
Or finish this freaking book so I can move on to the next one.
Or eat these Pringles/ice cream pops/cheese slices/whatever in peace.
Or just lay here on the couch, with my face covered with a blanket, in the dark, with my mellow music, with no freaking kids for FIVE DANG MINUTES.
I don’t want to wash diapers… but I will. I don’t want to find a safe non-harsh way to get this stupid pig clean (again) but I’ll try. I don’t want to do crafts today, so we won’t. I don’t want you touching my Kindle, so you won’t. I don’t feel like listening to Nick Jr, Disney Jr, Disney XD, Cartoon Network, Teen Nick, regular Nick, regular Disney, Qubo, or Boomerang, or mother-freaking-PBS so none of us will.
Please, go outside and play. Or here’s an idea – GO IN THE FREAKING PLAYROOM AND PLAY.
No, you can not touch my phone, camera, colored pencils, paint, computer, anything in my bedroom, my makeup, my hair stuff, my razor, my coffee cup, my hair, my back, my head, my chips, my chalk, my notebook, or my glasses. Quit asking.
Yes, if you are acting like a butthead, he can call you a butthead.
No, you can not stand on an end table screaming and throwing little people at your brothers’ heads just because they have control of the Netflix.
I don’t care if he wants to marathon watch that show, it’s his turn.
Summer vacation. Don’t you just love it.
Eight more weeks to go, come on moms, we can do this.
There, I feel a little better just getting all that out. Now here, smile and laugh and don’t judge me on my crappy singing non-talent.