martinimade

I was going to tell you all about the Diva and soccer but realized that am I too irritated to think kindly of my oldest (and, frankly, the youngest is ticking me off, too) and cast her adventures in that warm glow of childhood memory. To sum up - Oneonta is a big soccer town. There is a soccer league for K-2nd grade that is a hoot. Maddy is playing and is, appropriately, a hoot while playing. I'll take pictures on Sunday, which is when the next game is.

Provided I don't strangle her between now and then. Which I think I'll be able to not do, because I am an adult, god damn it, and in control here. I keep telling myself that. It's not at all true, mind, but does get me through the day.

We're having one of those weeks, helped along by the fact that it is the end of the term, Scott has been in tech- or show-mode for the last three weeks (which means he's home long enough to eat), and I have pretty much had enough of students who don't listen and/or have already mentally checked-out for the summer. The Diva, sensing weakness, has decided that this is the week that she'll stop listening, too, since I am the stupidest person in the world*.

The Dude, sensing all of the above and for reasons known only to him, has decided that this is the time to stop pooping, which, as we all know, is a bad idea. We've been trying to help matters along with large quantities of prune juice, which led to an explosion of poo two nights ago that will go down in my personal history as the most disgusting thing I have ever cleaned up ever.**

It all came to a head this morning when Miss Thing was being her usual pokey self. She didn't want shoes. Or to brush her teeth. Or to put on clothes. Or to pick up all of the hats, mittens and scarves she'd dumped on the floor so that she could find just the *right* pair to wear to school, which we weren't ever going to get to if she didn't get her behind out the door soon.  And when I threatened her with no-tv-afterschool if she didn't start co-operating toot-sweet, I was informed in that almost-six-year-old girl way that I am "mean."

I was mere seconds away from a descent into the sorts of language about which legends are written.  All that stopped me was the knowledge that she'd teach everything that was about to fly out of my mouth to each one of her friends. Which wouldn't be bad, necessarily, but would be even more irritating when the phone calls started.

So I'm not in the mood to heap sepia-toned praise upon my firstborn just this very second. Right now, she's lucky to still have a room in which to keep her Disney princess paraphernalia and heaps of books, all of which are on her floor because I seem to be the only person in the house who knows how to pick shit up.

Grrr.

I'm going to go grade papers now. Because that always improves my mood and never, ever makes me wonder if I'm the only one who hears the words coming out of my mouth.

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* in her oh-so-educated opinion
** if it helps you get a visual, remember that I also have two cats who bring me quasi-living offerings, have birthed two babies and have a kid who used to regularly throw up.