Yesterday I was on the elliptical machine at the Y.
I was listening to my ipod.
The View was on tv. I couldn’t hear the sound, but I was reading the closed captioning.
Someone started talking about some study which said that women with daughters live longer than women with sons.
Everyone seemed to agree.
Except for the guest host who was some football player.
I think he said he had 4 daughters.
And then he said something along the lines of, “Someone is crying in my house at all times.”
And then he said something like, “I have had to learn to apologize 17 different ways.”
Whoever that dude was,
I’m with him.
Yes, Number 6, my 2-year-old son, appears to be on a mission to destroy the house single handedly.
Yeah. I could keep going.
But you get the picture (s).
Those incidents are extremely annoying.
But at least they end quickly.
The girls, on the other hand, are relentless.
The volume and duration of the crying is actually impressive.
And it is slowly sucking the life out of me.
Number 4, well…
You know Number 4.
What you don’t know is that Number 4 started out as a twin.
There was another one in there with her.
And I’m pretty sure she looked at him, or her, and said,
“Um, only one of us is getting out of here alive.”
It was very early on.
And I’m okay with it.
Because one Number 4 is all I can take.
But Number 5 is no picnic these days either.
Yesterday I had her preschool conference.
Her teacher said she’s perfect.
About 14 times.
Then she said she wished she could have her.
To which I thought silently to myself,
Go ahead…take her.
5 minutes should be enough time for you to meet one of her other personalities.
And change your mind.
So anyway, yesterday Number 5 and 6 were sitting at the counter in the kitchen eating snack.
You know, these two:
Number 5 had her face about 2 inches away from Number 6’s.
She was spitting on him.
He thought it was funny.
Number 4 walked into the kitchen and sat down.
I told Number 5 to stop spitting on Number 6.
She looked right at me.
And then she went back to spitting.
So I walked over, put my hands on her cheeks, and turned her face back to facing forward.
And she started bawling.
Like I had just beheaded her.
“YOU HURT ME!!!
“That’s enough!” I snapped.
That’s when Number 4 chimed in.
“I think she means her heart, Mom…
I think ….
….you hurt her heart.”
Are you kidding me?
Where the fuck do they come up with this shit?
Like I said before…
…I’m with that guest host on The View.
These girls are trying to kill me.
And they’re going to do it way before Number 6 does.
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