Revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.

The only thing that is keeping me going this morning is my plan for the future. I can't punish my kids for waking up in the 5's this morning or for staying awake until the 10's last night. I can't get mad at them for demanding no less than 4 times that I get them things while I'm trying to have my first coffee of the day. I can't begrudge them wiping their butts while they complain or listening to their dramatic, tortured cries as I simply put a shirt over their heads. And so on. There is no recourse. At this time. But as they cry, whine, shout, demand and hit I am formulating a plan.

As exhaustion sinks in, I am scheming.

With every kick to the face and every 'I hate you', I am strategizing.

 I refuse to be caught with my pants down, like I was with the toddler/preschool years. As my children grow into teens, I will be ready for sweet, sweet revenge. The moment they start sleeping in and I no longer can (after years of sleep deprivation have trained my body not to even hope for deep sleep again), I will be there, at the foot of their beds with a bullhorn. Or, when I drop them off at school, after years of of having to struggle to get them out the door and listening to them yell for the whole drive, I will be there, shouting out my window to them in their school yard that they forgot their heavy flow tampons. When they are settled in on the sofa, calmly watching their favorite show, laughing and enjoying themselves, I will be there, turning the television off and running away with the remote. If revenge is a dish best served cold, I will be there in a decade with a sadistic smile on my face saying; 'let's eat, bitches'.

Sleep Training Technique

Turns out it's my natural state to be knocked up. I seem to have found myself in this predicament often in the last 4 years. And each and every time I am older and it is more difficult. This time around, I am having back problems. I mean, can't-walk-standing-up-straight-back problems. There is a reality to having young children and being unable to walk properly.

The other night, the middle child awoke and when I determined that ignoring her wasn't going to make the problem go away, I got up and hobbled to her room, picked her up and tried to carry her over to the spare bed that's in her room. I found that carrying her was nearly impossible and decided to try gently tossing her onto the bed instead. I came up short. She did not land on the bed.

In other news, the middle one is now sleeping through the night or is too terrified to call out for me. But either way...

The only thing I'm dripping with is little girls...

There is A LOT that I can relate to in this song.  Like, I get why she drinks alone at the end of the day.

Say Cheese!

I LOVE my kids. I truly, truly do. I think they're great. Better than yours, probably. I want nothing but the best for them. Happiness. Love. Light. All of that.

But... and there's no way to say this without it sounding bad... I really, really want a picture of them with Santa where they are completely freaking out.

I think it's swell to have a picture of them sitting on his lap in their Sunday best with cute hair do's and pretty smiles and what not but for posterity, for the future, for them, I want a picture of Spawn I and II  losing their minds at Santa. I will bring it out and show every boyfriend they ever have, pass it around at their weddings, send it in to their yearbook editors, and if they don't treat me right, slip it to the opposition party during election time for cutesy attack ad fodder.

But please. I'm not going to intervene and fill their heads with lies about Santa just for a photo op!  I mean, different lies, other lies in addition to the societally accepted lies. Because making up lies about an unnaturally jolly man who works in isolation with child- like vassals, talking to animals, and stealthily entering homes whilst vulnerable children sleep would be cruel. We're just barely teetering on the edge of civility with this story. If my dream holiday picture happens, it happens. I will console them. I won't torture them and make them sit there for that long or anything.

I guess I don't feel bad about this scenario because I know that they won't be scarred for life. Ultimately, like any decent predator, Santa will win them over, year after year, by bribing them with candy and toys and we'll look back at the pictures and laugh and laugh.

Merry Christmas.

My eldest Spawn is supposed to be napping but is instead singing 'I've been working on the railroad' on a serious repeat. I find this hard to swallow. We both know that she's never done a day of hard work in her life. 

Xmas DIY

I have the best Christmas present idea! It would cost less than $20 and give the kids hours of endless fun!

Batteries!

I'm talking AAA and AA and D's and DD (is that a battery size?). Both stockings full to overflow with sweet, sweet batteries! Think about all the toys lying around that I've been too lazy to deal with: I'd have to find the right screw driver, use the screw driver, replace the batteries, and then use the screw driver again. After months or even years of these lifeless toys lying around collecting dust, they will be given a new lease on life. It will be like, well, Christmas morning.

Actually, the more I think about this- and I've been giving it a lot of serious thought, the more I think I should do a cull of these toys now so as to erase them from their memories by the 25th. And rather than giving them batteries for Christmas (which, frankly,  may confuse them), I will replace the batteries in the toys, wrap each toy individually in pretty paper, and pile them under the tree! TA-DA! It will appear to them as though they hit the mother load and I will have spent a mere $20 while saving the planet (kind of). And then we'll put all their 'new' Christmas toys in a garbage bag and donate them to the less fortunate. Because life is cruel and twisted and the sooner they learn that, the better off they'll be.

Happy holidays!

Oh, the joy.

Things change when you have a million children, as I do.

When it was only Spawn, I cared about her clothes and hair. I didn't want her to wear pink all the time or have cartoon characters on her blankets. But now that I'm so busy with both Spawns, I barely care if their clothes fit at all. I couldn't care less if their socks don't match and I'm not opposed to cutting the feet out of their pajamas to get an extra season's wear out of them. Plus, it's hilarious to see them in the Incredible Hulk- like attire when they're throwing a tantrum. I find I have adopted the same philosophy I had when dressing myself back in my waitressing days: 'they don't know that I didn't just get this food on my shirt".

The hardest aspect of Spawn's appearance to deal with though is her hair. It's usually insane and out of order constantly. Brushing it causes hysteria and I run the risk of having the neighbors call social services to whisk the children away. I've weighed the pros and cons and I've decided that that would be too disruptive. Besides, what if they liked the foster home better? What if their new parents sat on the floor with them and used flash cards for educational play? What if they made little pizzas with green pepper smiles, cheese hair and olive eye balls? What if they were strict about keeping Spawn out of pull ups and in underwear so she could end this potty training purgatory? It's too risky. I like a vacation as much as the next mom but I'll have to wait and send them to camp where they're legally obliged to return the kids.

Long story short: Spawns hair is a bird's nest and she dresses like a homeless person but I think we can all agree that it's for the best. It shows I care.