Someone brought a bottle of nice white wine (Cab Sauv Blanc) to the house last night for dinner.
**OMG, Beenie just threw herself on the ground screaming, in tears “I WANNA WATCH MORE TWEETY BIRD!” I just had to share this with you.**
Back to the whine, I mean wine, I mean whine. I mean wine. I drank a glass of it last night with a delish vegan/gluten-free dinner I prepared:
- black beans with chipotle peppers
- brown and wild rice
- fresh guacamole, with lots of fresh lime and cilantro and garlic and onion
And wine. I drank it. My ears are ringing from having three and a half year olds SCREAMING right next to me for long periods of time, every single day. That glass of wine did not give me a headache. I followed it by copious amounts of water. Tonight, after what I can safely say was an off-and-on grueling day, I consumed another glass of wine, then another half glass. And that is where I am right now. Maybe that’s why I seem to have fluid fingers to type an entry. The grape is loosening it all up. No shooting brain pain yet, but I think I’ll pour me a nice glass of water to make sure. But I gotta say, a little alcohol soothes the frazzled edges of nerves that used to supply impulses to my extremities. My first thought is to have more wine, but I’m going to ignore this until after the girls are in bed. No need to ruin this truly muted experience.
It’s all true, you know. Parenthood is hard, then it gets easier, then it gets really hard, then it is delightful, then it gets really fucking hard, simultaneously being a breeze in some ways. Not for the weak, because my friends, it will crush you. It is crushing me and also making me much stronger than I was pre-children. Dammit.
“NO! YES! NO! YES! NO! YES! YES! YES! YES! NO!” this is the conversation I just had with Mimi. And she’s still pissed. And so am I, but I’m just pissed with a little wine. She’s actually mad, not yet beaten down, like me.
I called my 90 year-old Grandmother to wish her a happy 90th birthday today. As always, me being on the phone demands one of my children, usually Beenie, to lose her shit. Today was no different. Oh she was howling! Luckily, my Grandmother, who miraculously survived a bout with a stroke, skin cancer, and a heart attack, is now hard of hearing, so she probably wasn’t as bothered by the little terror’s screams as I was. But goddammit! I can’t fucking call my NINETY YEAR OLD Grandmother on her birthday without this?! I can feel my blood pressure racing as I think about this, while writing about it.
Right now I am feeling desperate, like if I don’t get some serious time to myself, painting, it ain’t gonna be pretty. Might try the wakeupat6amtomorrow to paint strategy, so that my absence isn’t even noticed. Better yet, I’ll try the leave at 9am and don’t come back till Monday at 9 to drive the girls to school plan. That one sounds better. Though less likely to happen. A girl can dream, can’t she?
At least my poor husband spent the day cursing customer service people both in the U.S. and India, trying to get our new cable phone and interwebs up and running after firing the heinous Verizon. He’s seeming kinda frazzled, too. Maybe the girls will just chill the f out tonight and sleep. Please, buddahgodbugsbunny. Please hear my prayers.
As usual, I seem to be living a parallel life 2000 miles away. Of course, this is apparently the life that moms with full pre-children lives are doomed/blessed to endure/enjoy.
I love this post. I love that you might have driven the headaches away. I love this line:
“Parenthood is hard, then it gets easier, then it gets really hard, then it is delightful, then it gets really fucking hard, simultaneously being a breeze in some ways.”
I love that you might get to paint.
And I love this whole reality:
“It is crushing me and also making me much stronger than I was pre-children. Dammit.”