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Ahhhnd This Is Why My Flat Iron is in the Trash. Are You Happy NOW?!

Dear Darling Sons,

I adore you.

I give you as much of myself as I can every day.

I don’t have a house cleaner.  I don’t have a babysitter/nanny.  There is no fancy pre-pre-preK formal education happening.  I don’t have meals delivered. . .(That’s right.  Not even pizza.  But once a quarter sushi. . .whatever, no one’s PERFECT!).

Where was I?

Right.

I have spent the day cleaning poops out of your pants and scrubbing errant toothpaste and pee off the bathroom fixtures, and taking you to visit friends. . .

I also tried to keep you entertained, stimulated, exercised, fed, and happy.

There was even a spa treatment. . .of sorts. . .involving anti-itch lotion.

Regardless, I.  TRY.  SO.  DAMN. HARD.

You are my world.

But, after nearly 3 years, I FINALLY have an invitation to go out after 5 PM, with some friends.  And I wanted to look presentable.

I wanted to feel nice.

I wanted to have smooth legs and groomed eyebrows and ugh good hair.

So when I put your adorable little asses to bed several hours ago, I had very high expectations that’s where they would stay until some ungodly hour of the morning. . .

So I washed my hair. . .in the kitchen sink.

Because Teddy, I know how you roll:  all loud-angry-hungry at all hours. . .and I couldn’t trust you with a full-on shower. . .

And just as I got to the most critical part of my blow-out. . .BLAH! Both of you awake!

Teddy, then Mac.

Now I look like a damned poodle.

There’s no time to fix this.

I don’t even know why I bother.

In fact, I’m done bothering.

You’ve ruined my favorite songs, my favorite movies, my “me” time, my ability to read anything without falling asleep, my ability to talk on the phone or use a computer, my ability to think clearly or focus EVER, my sleep, and don’t even get me started on what you’ve done to my body!

There will never be another blow out. . .

Because, darling sons. . .YOU MAKE IT FREAKING IMPOSSIBLE.

THANKS A LOT!

You seem happy.

And damnit. . .

That’s all that matters. . .

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