I Want My Mom.

Cue the violin.

My stupid car won’t start. After all these months of singing its praises, of changing its oil on a regular basis, of stopping for gas before the tank is completely empty…my stupid car won’t stupid start. Screw being thankful. I straight-up effing hate that thing.

Mia hitched a ride to school with the neighbor. I’ve done nothing but call my husband every 2 seconds, knowing full good and well that he’s on an airplane. I’ve obsessive-compulsively swept the floor. The fact that I’m still coming up with large piles of dog hair even though I’ve gone over the entire kitchen and living room area 3 times already enrages me even more.

I have a fever.

My tooth hurts.

I tried to be thrifty with $2.50 worth of box color from Walmart. I now have purple hair. All my kids’ new jeans have massive holes in the knees. The Children’s Place will no longer get my business.

Merrick no longer sleeps. He only screams. He’s seriously hoarse by morning. I’m so tired and I’m all strung out on coffee. I’d kill for a solid 3 hours’ worth of sleep.

I want my husband to be home, just for once, when shit hits the fan like this. Let him be home to jump my car or do whatever it is people do with those cable thingys…instead I get to listen to him bark orders at me–while I’m standing outside with a fever in the freezing cold, straining to hear his garbled cell phone voice get exasperated with me after 2 minutes of telling me what to do…and meanwhile, Merrick is running wild through the mud without a coat on. I want him home, to nurse me back to health, to calm Mia down when she’s in panic-attack mode, to reach under the couch with his monkey arms for Merrick’s matchbox cars, to wipe the sloppy red clay from the dogs’ feet after they’ve gone outside in the rain for the fifteen-hundredth time that day…

I’m so very grateful for good friends, who keep offering to help in any way they can…but unless they have magic wands they’re willing to loan out for the rest of the week, I hate to bother them.

I want my mom.

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About Toni

Mom. Wife. Artist. I take care of the kids and pretend to clean sometimes. I can cook spagetti and I have never been arrested. View all posts by Toni

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