I want my mommy


That’s not Evan talking, it’s me, the alleged grown-up in the house. Some days I just want to be the 4 year old. I really do. I want to say heck with all this responsibility nonsense. I want to wail and moan and have my mommy make it all better. That day was today.

If one more person throws food…

If one more person jumps in bed with me pre-dawn begging to play Scrabble (wtf?!)…

If one more person empties out every lower cabinet and drawer in the kitchen and bathroom…

If one more person acts a fool in the grocery store…

If one more person drops a full sippy cup of milk on my bare foot…

If one more person asks the same question 82 times…

…then I’ll know I still have the best job in the world. Because I answer every question and I bandage every boo-boo (even my own) and I scrape discarded food off the walls and out of Bailey’s fur and I like it. But tonight I am tired, I am bleary-eyed and a few hours past the reasonable and acceptable distance between two showers. Without a doubt, life is good and once I’ve decided that no one is being put on craigslist today, I can deal with the rest. I have two beautiful sleeping babies upstairs and the condition of my manicure is my receipt for this day, paid in full. They put me through it and I lived to tell. I came, I saw, I conquered two small children and a tub of Nutella.


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