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"As for me, I'll take one baby marinated in a dish please"

Your sister has a poopy diaper?...Hold on, let me set my fantasy lineup

I'm hoping that being white trash is a symptom, like a runny nose or a fever, that goes away with a little TLC.  Because let me tell you, right now, I'm feeling pretty whisky tango.  I can't keep my house clean, my "blond" hair has roots two inches deep, and ever since quitting my job as an event coordinator, my uniform is yoga pants and an oversized tee shirt.  I can't even wear a fitted shirt, because, oh ya, I haven't lost those 8 extra baby pounds that fit snugly around my waist line.  And here's the thing.  I can't really even call them baby pounds anymore because Milan is 15 month old.

I guess it's my karma for snickering at all the mom's in the grocery store that would wear slippers and pjs while shopping for peanut butter and turkey.  Yep, that was me.  One eyebrow raised wondering how under eye bags even got that big.  And how could they let their children eat all that junk.  Who would even buy stuff with MSG? And peanut butter with all those chemicals? Don't those mom's get it?  Insert eye-roll here.

Two kids later, I'll tell you how that shit happens.  It's called the parent beat-down.  It starts slowly and methodically.  Just kidding, no it doesn't.  It starts like a firestorm of kid wakes up 6 times a night and finally gets up at 5:30 a.m. for the day.  So right off the bat they beat you with no sleep.  It's criminal really.  I don't even think they let that happen at Guantanamo Bay.  Next, they trick you by eating organic black beans and avocado.  But it's just a phase to let you believe you know what you are doing.  Quickly, that ends with them refusing to eat anything but hotdogs and marshmallows.  And of course, you give in.  Or should I say that I give in because I'm too tired to fight the iron will of a marshmallow monster.

And then they take over the house.  I vacuum the floor, they spill granola all over it.  And then they dump their water out, "accidentally," like 5 times.

 I fold cloths and then they jump into them like raked up Autumn leaves.  After abandoning the idea of folding altogether, I just put them in drawers.  It seems like the answer until I look over and one of them is pulling them out of the drawer and throwing them on the floor.

Next up? Smearing the couch with leftover yogurt that I couldn't get off their hands quickly enough.  And then after that, emptying every toy in the bins onto the floor.  But let us not forget the building nests with every towel in the house because they are pretending to be baby birds.  Oh wait? Did Milan just take Pirates Booty into her nest?  Yep, now fake cheese flakes are caked all over the bed.  But it's fine because I still need to wash the sheets after  Ellyette had an accident on them the night before.

Time to sit them in front of the TV.  But alas, not even Leo, June, Quincy and Annie from Little Einsteins can entertain them to the point of getting anything accomplished, so we move along.  And I, with the unimaginable under eye bags, unplucked eyebrows, and disaster of a house, am the epitome of desperation.   But all that changes when Ellyette comes to me and says, "mom, Milan has a poopy diaper.  It stinks!!"  And to which I respond with, "hold on, I need to set my fantasy lineup.  Auntie Bree can't beat me this week.  It will just take a few minutes.  She can hold on."
 
And right there I went from desperate to a little whiskey tango.  Hoping it isn't permanent.


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