Oh fuckity fuck fuck.
Or, might I rephrase, what the fuck are you two fucking fucks, fuck?!
Routines were abruptly changed starting last weekend. Daddy Drax started in on his summer schedule. Friday was fine, he was a little sad at bathtime but overall okay. Saturday was nerve-wracking, nail-biting, hair-raising, all that jazz. But we survived. And then Sunday came. The day it all fell apart. Let me start off by saying it was muggy as hell out. None of us do well in high humidity. All Rizzle wanted to do was sit around and watch Elmo, all PX wanted was his old routine back. The morning was a shitshow, everyone crying and pissed off about food choices and sick of sweating like a pig by lunch time. I put all my hopey eggs in one basket and decided that after naptime, I would ensure a fun afternoon filled with favorite snacks and activities. We’d even go to PX’s favorite store, the grocery store, and hopefully it’d be good.
….HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Blind optimism at its finest!
We walked PX’s favorite route but, once we got to the store, it was clearly obvious something had completely snapped, a regression was setting in, input was being craved. He started chewing on the foamy covering to his stroller bar. He hung over the sides like a rag doll, legs up over the bar, laughing like a lunatic. He was swiping at objects and cried when we stopped moving. Rizzle followed his lead. I tried giving him his favorite snacks, a special treat for being out on an errand. Sadly, no use. I decided to high tail it home afterwards, showing him his picture cards for his swing and lovey. We somehow made it up the stairs alright, but then the reality of being home and still no daddy set in. And, it was supper time.
So the kids got Elmo. PX was still seeking input everywhere but usually the fluffy muppet gives him what he needs visually and, with a favorite toy and squishy vest, he’s fairly level. I apparently misjudged how much MORE he was looking for. The kitchen and living room are conjoined so I can watch them while cooking, the one plus of this shitty apartment. After not even 5 minutes of starting dinner, PX had dumped out my Vitamin Water all over his lap. I rushed in to assess the damage, burnt my hand on a burner in the process, and arrived just the second PX shoved his entire hand into his mouth and, well, what’s the color code for total projectile vomit?
Himself, his sister, their toys, the couch, the floor. ON A MUGGY FUCKING DAY IN THE AFTERNOON SUNSHINE.
& my monthly allowance of fucks were used up; not a single one will be given again till June.
So I hosed ‘em down, salvaged dinner, and carried on business as usual. It was still FIVE HOURS till Daddy’s ETA. So, no time for whining and dreaming of incredibly strong margaritas the size of bath tubs spoon-fed to me by shirtless cabana boys on a beach in Maui.
Thankfully, once Daddy returned to PX’s world Monday afternoon, 48 hours since he’d last seen him, PX bounced back fairly quickly. Who knows what this weekend will be, but as long as it doesn’t involve bodily fluids, it’ll probably be a win. I hope. If not, I’ve made sure Ryan Gosling will be on standby for moral support, with a case of Clorox wipes and 5lbs of Wendy’s fries.
Double cheezburgers AND RyGos’ abs? OK!!!
I’d elaborate on this *gem* of the week, if it wouldn’t infuriate me.
I hear it’s quite an inspiring novel, so let’s get crackin!!
Alright time to go link up at Adventures in Extreme Parenthood and load up some of my favorite blogs on Google Reader for later.
