So there's all this stuff I'm supposed to be doing, like all the time. But all I can consistently manage is feed the children, get the children to school, get the children home, put children to bed. I'm pretty good at cleaning the kitchen, too. I'll give myself that.
I'm starting to think that feeding the children is what is sucking the life essence from my pores. Not a coincidence that one of the children is quite literally & exquisitely sucking out my life essence; and as fucking AWESOME as that is, it wears me out. Put on top of that, the 17 bowls of cereal, 3 sandwiches, 4 bananas, 14 yogurts, 30 glasses of water and 1 bowl of mac n cheese Penelope eats every day and the 3 cubic tons of fruit, eggs and tunafish that Ruby can consume-- all of which I prepare serve and clean up after-- just may kill me dead. Dead. DEAD.
I'm afraid of how much food they eat. I think about their intake more than I think about anything else at this point. Sorry baby. It's not you, it's not me IT'S THEM AND ALL THE GODDAMNED FOOD! HOW CAN WE HAVE SEX WHEN I HAVE TO MAKE ANOTHER GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH IN 4 MINUTES!?!?!
And just when I clean the shit up? Oh, yeah, baby! Bring it on! Nothing screams FEED ME to an 8 and 4 year old like a sparkly clean stove. BOO YAH! It's bizarre, I want to cut them off "kitchen's closed bitches" and all that... but, I mean, they're hungry... Maybe they're Amazons? Cylons?
So with one on the boob, two at the counter (and one waiting in bed. Again, sorry babe. YOU'RE HOT), I'll be flipping fish sticks and squeezing ketchup. Perhaps I can turn this circus into a reality show, make some money for the grocery bill...