You know when you have a million things to do and you suddenly realize (with great panic) that you’ve been sitting still and staring into space for the last five minutes, doing nothing at all?
Or maybe you’ve found yourself responding to emails and chats one minute, then the next, you’re standing over your radiant space heater, leaning your head on the cubicle wall for just one moment of frickin’ peace?
That’s kind of been my day, so needless to say, the conditions weren’t exactly primed for an easy evening with my kids.
Because I had a moment of insanity, I decided to drag my children to Target tonight after work. This timeframe is also dangerously close to dinner time. (Super-moms may be rolling their eyes at that last line and feeling pretty superior right now because they would NEVER drag their tired and hungry kids to the store at the end of the day. Luckily, I have never had any claim on the title of ‘Super Mom’ so feel free to enjoy your moment of superiority, ladies.)
You can guess the joyful time the three of us had in the cereal aisle. Hashtag – meltdown city.
In the checkout line, I caught a dad staring at me. His kid was little, so maybe he was thinking, “Oh crap…they aren’t done with the fits by that age? Frick.” I felt bad for depressing the guy.
It’s a miracle I did not attempt to leave my kids in the parking lot. If you would have happened to pop on by, they would have been the creatures saying rude things to each other and putting on a great show of pure shit-storm chaos.
Violet would’ve been the crying, floppy, shrieky one, screaming at her brother and Jackson would have been the boy laughing, poking and mimicking her, causing her fury to boil over into further unladylike fits.
If CPS had been called, I think they would have waited in the car before approaching them so they wouldn’t have to deal with their antics. I imagine that the CPS workers would have done rock-paper-scissors to decide who had to approach the wildlings who had, by now, taken over the Target cart corral and made it their own personal jungle gym slash perch of terror.
Beware, cart boy! These kids are insane and they would like nothing more than to attack from above and steal your robotic cart-pushy-thing. You and your skinny khaki pants are no match for their sheer cunning and maniacal determination to get you riled up and push all of your ‘angry-face’ buttons. May God have mercy on your soul.
But I managed to stifle the urge to abandon my children to their own fate and drove them home instead. TV was taken away for the evening. Further drama ensued. Is it 8:00 yet?
I found my wine glass and decided to make dinner while the two crazy-pants’ were doomed to read by themselves on their beds. Taco mountain was served. Dinner time!
Did you know that I love peach-flavored Jolly Ranchers (which I haven’t seen since high school) yet the thought of peach-flavored yogurt makes me want to hurl? It’s true. And tonight at dinner, between the sloppy table manners of my offspring and rancid smell of my eight year old’s toes, this very thought sprang to the front of my mind and I thought, “I have to blog about that!”
So now you know. I have specific preferences when it comes to the artificial flavor of peach.
::sigh:: That feels better.
I really should be tackling a pile of work, yet here I am, writing innocuous things and Googling the word “innocuous” to make sure I used it correctly.
Hmm. Apparently it means that I would be writing harmless things that would not offend anyone. We’ll see about that. Who knows if the Target cart-boy is a Blogorama reader. He may not have appreciated my jab at his stupid pants.
Here’s to you, oh curious reader. I hope your evening is full of peace and a lack of shrieking children. It’s been nice to have you here again and I’ll see what I can do about coming to visit you more often.