I’m about to lose my mind. Like straight up *explosion*.
It’s been a long day. A long week at that. Nothing unusual. But all I want is a glass of wine and some silence.
J is out for a much needed evening away, watching the game and drinking beers, so it’s just me and the Bug and the Peanut and a gorgeous spring evening. The light is that perfect golden, filtering through the leaves. We’ve just been biking up and down the alley. Popsicles have been consumed.
It’s been a good evening. It’s wind down time.
“But Maaammaaaa!!! I caaaan’t play Paw Patrol in my paaajaaaamaaas! I won’t ever play again if I have to take a bath and wear pajaaaamaaaas.”
Oh goody. So it’s going to be an easy bedtime tonight.
I take a deep breath while undress the Peanut to get into the bath. I look down and see not one, but two bandaids on her legs. Surprised, because the nanny never mentioned it, I take a peak under one. Nary a scratch.
Ah. The ol’ “bandaid-as-sticker” routine. Nothing to see here people. Move along.
Except. That move of maternal micromanaging sort of made half the bandaid come off. To which my logical brain said, take the whole thing off.
Wailing. Absolute heart broken wailing from both the 18 month old (who, I would argue, has cause for wailing, considering it was her juicy chunky thigh I just ripped said bandaid off of). But less expected was the wailing of my 4 year old who decided that the sheer injustice of a bandaid not on a body part warranted sobbing of epic proportions).
So. I am going to lose my mind. How can two little beings be such mental mayhem?
And the only thought that keep my brain from imploding from within? The knowledge that my misery has company.
To my fellow parents dealing with the same scene right now? Cheers.
May night fall quickly and the wine flow freely.