I haven’t worked out in three weeks plus two days. My back still hurts, although I think it’s on the mend. Well, it WAS on the mend before I did a few sprints on the beach, because sometimes I’m a big stubborn dumbster. A few hours after the sprints, my back whispered, “You are an idiot, and I will continue to cause you misery, and I will tell your ab muscles to cause you misery as well, and I’m going to ask your lungs to join in this protest.” Consequently, I now I have bronchitis, because my kids brought home some hideous virus that crawled into my lungs and procreated faster than that 19 Kids and Counting woman. I haven’t had a sip of gin in three weeks – that’s how totally BLECH I feel.
Yes, I’ve been to the doctor. Three times! And the Emergency Room! All of my bloodwork is excellent, and x-rays show nothing. I am a perfectly healthy sick person.
The good part, though – my no-yelling experiment has continued, mainly because I don’t have the strength to yell. But still! Our household definitely has developed a calmer state of chaos. The bad part: because I’m not exercising, I have no rage outlet. I can always berate Hot Firefighter Husband for some household faux pas – storing most of his clothes in his car so he never has anything clean to wear, throwing dirty towels in the clean laundry basket, leaving dental floss everywhere – but that’s not really fair. Even Husband gets pissy sometimes.
The whole situation has made me hyper-aware of how infuriating it is that children have no common sense. I find myself gritting my teeth a lot and silently mouthing HOLY HELL, WHAT THE FUCK? when my
human anchors adorable little love bugs engage me in ways that they must have researched on the Poptropica website. For example:
-that moment when the Tyrant starts yelling at me TO STOP BEING SO NOISY while I’m vacuuming up the glass she broke after throwing Teddy across the room.
-when she throws a tantrum because I nix her idea that in addition to a birthday pool party she’d like a movie party so maybe the dozen or so children she invited to a party I HAVEN’T EVEN PLANNED YET can come swimming then go to a movie and then come back home to play. #instantheadachefodder
– how the Pterodatyl won’t eat his toast when it’s, you know, toasted. DUH.
-how the younger children love to argue over who gets to play with one of the dogs, which is extra utterly ridiculous because we have two dogs, and nobody ever wants to play with them unless there’s an argument at stake. Except me.
My doctor told me I needed lots of rest and sleep to overcome bronchitis, which made me start crying. I was all Can’t you just admit me to the hospital? because that’s the only way I’ll get lots of rest and sleep. But I’ve definitely scaled back on housework, if that was even possible, and I’m not working out, so that helps, and I have a little extra time to take naps and Think About Life.
And I’ve decided to write up a manifesto of sorts, because my days seem all bonkers and I feel time slipping away without me noticing enough of the immeasurably pleasant aspects of my existence, like the taste of a great cantaloupe and the sight of dolphins at the beach and the smell of garlic in hot olive oil. I feel hungry.
Recently the Diva saw a commercial about Botox, and asked me about it. As I tried to explain it, Husband was in the background yelling IT’S POISON, A TOXIN, IT CAN KILL YOU, and I was all, Shut up, and just let me tell her, and remember I did it once, and it didn’t take. So I finished my explanation and she asked if we knew anyone who’d had Botox and I said, “Um, yes. Practically every adult woman you know.” Which is pretty much true. And then she said, “OOOHHHHH,” like she had just figured out the Pythagorean Theorem. “THAT’S why they look so much younger than you.”
That didn’t cause me any rage, really, because it’s the total fucking truth, and I’m okay with that. But it did remind me that controlling my rage is the best way to preserve any sort of youthful outlook on life and the best way to minimize those Angry Mom lines that separate my eyebrows.
The Manifesto is starting to write itself in my head. Get ready for it.
4 responses to CONTROL THE RAGE, MUTHA. Try to, at least.
If your daughter wants to see another real 46 year old face that does not have a drop of Botox, INVITE ME TO LUNCH. Cause I don’t fucking care how old I look. And I’ve had those Angry Mom lines since before I had kids and I was just an Angry Wife.
Those three sentences perfectly encapsulate why I love you so much, Tracy Miller. I will invite you to lunch. xoxo
51, no Botox, no regrets. At least no regrets about my loved in, lived in skin. Thanks for sharing your completely impossible situations. It reminds me that normal is subjective, similar to getting a C grade, and completely without pizzazle. And the girl needs some pizzazle.
Nothing wrong with Cs, Ms.Elaine. I know you’re not used to getting them, but it’s okay. xoxo