The Fan’s Pretty Poopy, if you know what I mean

The day started off well enough, although I probably should’ve picked up on the signs . The kids had breakfast with Butterscotch, our borrowed guinea pig/poop machine, went through their shoe collection, and did some painting (a portrait of their favorite stuffie, a poop emoji they’ve named Big Poopi).

I’m going to come clean with you guys: my kids, while adorable and hilarious, are not the flawless angels you may think they are. There’s a reason we refer to them as “the turds” (yet another sign). Today, the turds were in rare form. I instituted a zero-tolerance policy for fighting and whining, and after explaining to them what zero-tolerance policy means, it went into effect. Ten minutes later, George was in time-out in his room. While he was up there, he asked if he could try on all his swim shorts. One thing led to another, and we ended up Kon Mari-ing the kids’ clothes.

Before (No pants required)

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After (we’re still working on Hazy’s)

Then we headed to Back Bay for Hazy’s annual check up (her birthday was in April; I’m totally on top of things), and then went for calorie maximizing donuts (let’s get that BMI up to the 4th percentile!).

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Hazy went for Donut of the Month; George went for Strawberry Frosted with “the most” sprinkles.

At this point, I was a little on edge from the frequent whining and fighting, but the fan was still relatively poop-free. Then we went grocery shopping.

I’m not ready to talk about the Grocery Store Showdown yet, but the short version is that George’s whining escalated into a full-scale temper tantrum, then he told me “no” when I told him to sit down for a time out, and the shi*t hit the fan. He was then physically removed by the store by the authorities (I’m the authority) and spent the rest of the grocery shopping time in the kiddie seat, asking repeatedly if he could “get out now.” He could not.

Whining, public tantrums, and insubordination are my hot button issues; any one of them or combination of them turns me into a female version of the Hulk but without the purple jorts. So while I’m sorry that picking out and pushing a shopping cart is more important to George than finding the lost ark was to Indiana Jones… actually I’m not sorry at all and couldn’t care less. I refuse to let the terrorists win, even if it’s my own child. The rest of the day was basically one long cheese and ice cream free time-out for George, his worst nightmare.

Hazy is either really empathetic, really smart, or both, because when George goes low, she goes high. She was on her best behavior, and even poured me a generous glass of rosé before dinner. Guess who’s getting to pick the shopping cart next time?

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“Mama, would you like some rosé?” I’ll take, Things an Angel Says for $200, Alex.

Let’s hope today’s a better day. I’m running low on patience and rosé.

3 thoughts on “The Fan’s Pretty Poopy, if you know what I mean”

  1. When I would get in trouble as a kid, my brother would walk up to my mom and say “but *I* love you, mom,” and give her a big hug. And it worked every time. Hell, it still does, and I’m still resentful.

    Liked by 1 person

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