As many of you are aware, I get a bit of grief from my family and certain friends (I'm looking at you Tex) for how much blogging I do. Fact is, I do it for 2 reasons; one is because I really enjoy doing it, and two is because right now I honestly believe it's the only thing keeping me from turning into Reverend Jim from TAXI.
Granted, I'm not going through anything that any other parent has had to endure; however I'm gonna go out on a limb and say these three tax deductions I'm raising my have raised the bar on testing one's patience. It's not that anything huge has happened, unless you count heart murmurs, tubes in ears, teeth puncturing lips, and a 2 year old house looking like a paintball field as huge.
It's an accumulation of several small moments and events that have me wishing for a bottle of Prozac and a month long stay in a sanitarium.
Take dinner time tonight, for instance. Ciera is talking to a friend on the phone in California, Trot is muttering "Noooo, Nooooo" while his Mom tries to get him to eat his cheese sandwich, Rakes is shouting "I LOVE soup, Dad. Do you LOVE soup, Dad? Me LOVE soup!" over and over, while Ang is walking around the kitchen grabbing her stomach and repeating "I'm having a sharp pain in my ovaries".
Now, I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure this isn't the best news she could be telling me. I AM a Dad and have a vague knowledge of what ovaries do, so I KNOW this isn't a positive development. Throw in the fact that Rakes has started to answer every request from me to stop :insert request here: with an exaggerated bow and the words "YES. Your majesty", and are there any guesses on how I coped with the little voices ping ponging around in my brain?
I did what Ward Cleaver, Andy Griffith, and Cliff Huxtable would have done; kept eating my soup, reading my book and pretended I was Tom Hanks in "Cast Away", Rakes was Wilson, and everything I was hearing was only in my head.
Before anyone calls Dr. Phil for an intervention, I was back to sweeping the floor, wiping hands, and getting kids in the tub within 5 minutes; it's just my coping mechanism for when I want to bolt out the front door and run screaming down the street shouting "I just want some peace and quiet!"
Besides, Rakes would eat Dr. Phil for lunch.
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