I would like you to subscribe to my blog. Here’s why, in the form of a story.
We are putting our house on the market because we need to downsize financially. But that has nothing to do you with you or my blog or subscriptions. I’m telling you that because the Pterodactyl is FREAKED THE FREAK OUT and cries every day. Remember, he doesn’t like change unless the change includes an immediate trip to Target.
We had to tell him we are moving because we don’t have one of those lazy ass realtors who will show your house when the breakfast dishes are still piled in the sink. We hired one of those SuperWoman realtors who dragged her eagle-eyed husband into business with her, and he notices every single potential buyer turnoff, including things that may or may not even exist. So we’ve hired Hot Handymen to fix everything, plus an OCD designer who moved all our furniture around. The house looks fantastic! I’d want it! But….um….we don’t qualify for a loan to buy it. HILARE, RIGHT?
The Diva is fine with moving, because she’s pretty much fine with everything as long as we’re not too far from a Sephora store. The little Tyrant was worried, but told me she’ll move if her new room could have either a window seat or double French doors with a balcony. She even consented to having her room repainted white because “sometimes I wake up in the morning and I feel like I’m in a pink dungeon.”
But the little Pterodactyl can’t fathom moving, and I made a critical mistake that compounded his trauma. You may recall that a few months ago we paid an actual artist to paint a gorgeous octopus mural on his wall. He loved it. Then one night during a tantrum he used the crank from my antique wooden clothes wringer (it might be a butter churn) to bash a hole in the octopus. Buzz kill.
The hole had to be fixed; and after the drywall work was done, it seemed logical to just repaint the wall. And cover the octopus. And I swear I told him this. I know I at least mentioned it to him.
But if I did, the reality of it eluded him – until last night at bedtime.
It started because I was exhausted, and had little patience for his usual weirdo antics. He loves when I smell his feet and pretend to pass out. But I didn’t want to smell his feet because we had just returned from service dog training at a local mall and he had forgotten his shoes and walked the whole mall in his socks and I was considering putting his whole foot in bleach. He insisted on the smelling business. I let myself get aggravated and leave his room. To the Pterodactyl, that meant WAR. He announced that he would BREAK the wall. And the house. Hot Firefighter Husband tried to take over, but he can’t. Only I hold the key. I try to give Husband the key, but it’s like he can’t remember which way it fits, or maybe the boy just throws on the deadbolt.
Before I knew it, it was 9 pm. The little Tyrant was so tired she could barely hold up her adorable eyelids, but she couldn’t fall asleep through the screaming. The Diva became furious because her brother wouldn’t stop kicking the wall between their rooms.
For a full five minutes, I lay on my bed playing Words with Friends trying to re-center myself. I attended a little pity party with just me and Buddy the Wonder Dog as guests. Then I stood up, found my son, CALMLY grabbed his arm and dragged him outside. He screamed. I CALMLY told him we were going to walk outside until his tantrum was over. He protested because he wasn’t wearing shoes, and I was like, HOLY MOTHER OF BACTERIA, YOU WALKED AN ENTIRE MALL IN YOUR SOCKS AND PROBABLY JUST INTRODUCED THE EBOLA VIRUS INTO THE HOUSE, which is definitely going to affect the listing price, but I just CALMLY said, “Too bad,” and we kept walking. Well, to be honest, I was walking, and he was being…..escorted.
A few minutes passed by before he relaxed, held out his hand, and we walked back home. He crawled into bed and I held him while he cried the real tears and his lip trembled and he quietly asked why we had to get rid of his octopus and I could see his little heart had cracked. “I feel like you’re selling all of our memories,” he sobbed. Seriously? Soon I will need a saltwater infusion into my tear ducts.
Eventually I went to bed, then woke up at 5:15 am so I could write all this down.
Listen, I have three little children, one of whom needs me, like, all the time. I take care of them fulltime. I have two dogs, including one I’m training to be a service dog. I work as a fitness trainer so we can have a free gym membership. I work part-time for a CPR certification company my husband and I co-own.
And I write. It’s my favorite job, and the most logical one to give up. It’s the job that actually costs me money because I’m a luddite and can’t build a website by myself. But I can’t give it up because it’s part of who I am.
I am not asking you to just give me money. If you don’t read my blog, which would make it really weird for you to have even got this far, then by all means, go buy a latte instead.
And if you honestly can’t afford it, man, I get that. I’m about to sell my fucking house, after all.
Barring the above two circumstances, though, listen – I’m going out on a live oak tree limb here – I’m good. I’m really good. I am worth $3.99 a month. When I write, I give you the best of me. In return, I just want a little chunk of the loose change from your sofa cushions.
I don’t know. It seems like a pretty good deal.
Poor Pterodactyl. He tried to scrub the paint off his wall because he thought the octopus might still be there. Also, Buddy the Wonder Dog threw up another sock yesterday. I thought you’d want to know.
PS To those of you who’ve already subscribed, you are the wind beneath my tarred, ruffled wings. Thank you. <3