Sunday, February 06, 2011

I Want to Go to the Ball. The One with a Foot in Front and a Party at the End.

The way I see it, the 30 Days of Truth are like the 12-Steps for people who are addicted to writing. You go through the 30 Days of them and you don't want to fucking write ever again. So I'm pointedly ignoring Days 11 and Beyond. I'm ignoring so pointedly, my head hurts. Or maybe my head hurts because Bee threw a matchbox at it...Whatever.

My children? Are most certainly my offspring. This afternoon, they're staging a protest. Not to worry, it is quiet and peaceful. My little pioneers...



Apparently, as much as naps suck, they are far more entertaining than going to a Superbowl Party. I've recently given up on naps almost entirely (and by default my sanity...and my hair) because the mental gymnastics and cajoling involved with getting either one to take a nap leaves me listless and twitching in the middle of the floor (I know, right? Weird how you can be listless and still twitch. Proof positive Zee and Bee have evil powers. News Flash!).

Anyway, listlessly twitching is far less productive than being a cranky and bossy Mama an hour before bedtime. Actually, being a cranky and bossy Mama an hour before bedtime is fairly productive. Gets shit done, that. So I'm cool with No-Nap-alooza these days.

And while I'm secretly touched that I seem to have passed the Football is Boring as Shit gene on to my children, a tear did stir in mine eye, they're missing a critical bit of genetic info. The word Superbowl isn't as long as supercalifragilistexpialidocious which is awesome because if it were? I'd be passed out the couch with The Protesters midway through 'cali'. But, before the word 'Superbowl' has my eyelids hitting terminal velocity to 'out of service' the word 'Party' pops up.

And with that little gem I'm thinking, "Party?! Adults!!! Grown-up people! People who don't, uh, get out of the bathtub and run the Still Dripping Naked Marathon around the house, stopping only to put their hands on their knees and watch their tinkle hit the floor while giggling maniacally? Or, if they do, I don't have to chase them with a diaper at least? Or even watch? I'm so in on that PARTY! Nevermind the guy across the room with popping forehead veins who keeps shushing me in between shouting at the tv. Stuff a nacho in it, dude. I'm at a PAR-TAY! And we all have PANTS ON!"

I'm so there.

Or, I'm so there AFTER Project Nap to Screw Up Mom's Plans.

4 Leg Humps:

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