The Ten Minute Instability

What a difference ten minutes makes.

Ten minutes ago I had steam coming from my ears and fire from my nostrils. It’s just one of those days.

One of those days where you begin to question every little thing that brought you up to this point in life.

Why did I volunteer to make four dozen cupcakes for my son’s birthday tomorrow?

Why is this the worst allergy season ever?

Of all the days for my daughter to forget her homework for THE FIRST TIME EVER, why is it on the day that I subbed for her class?

Why isn’t the effing garbage disposal STILL not working? Why can I not find my cute little pink tool kit? Why did I go to the garage to find it and do a double take on one of these fine creatures?

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Why did I scream at the top of my lungs and look for a giant shoe or something to stomp that huge mofo? Why were the only things in arm’s reach to kill a giant mofo were a plunger and a ceramic pink bunny (a craft I completely forgot about after Easter)? Why did I reach for ant poison spray to kill that huge mofo? Why did it take A LONG ASS TIME for that huge mofo to die? Why am I too afraid to go back in the garage to see if it actually died or if I mutated it into a larger, deadlier mofo?

Why did I have to use that spray because now I have to let the dogs out of the garage to avoid the mutating fumes? Why is my neighbor working in his garden of all evenings so now the dogs have to hang out in the house with me?

Why are these dogs shedding like crazy so that when I vacuum the rug and the couches it looks clean for about five minutes?

Why has my husband had only three years of shore duty in the past nineteen years and one of those years was because he was recovering from the car accident in Iraq at home? Why do I have to do effing everything by myeffingself all of the effing time? Why am I the one who has to effing stay home with the kids? Why am I the one who has put her career on hold for twelve years? Why am I the one who feels like a real bizzatch when I have to be Mommy AND Daddy? Why do we have to have Father’s Day when it just reminds the kids that their father is not here and I am still alone? Why do I have to plan around the kids’ school breakfast for dads, taking them into town to get breakfast before school to avoid all of the dads with their kids? Why do the kids put on a brave face every single effing day for me and have stopped complaining about Daddy’s job? Why do I have to put on a brave face every single effing moment of every single effing minute of the day? Why do I have to be the housekeeper, nurse, psychiatrist, teacher, chef, baker, zookeeper, accountant, party planner, electrician, plumber, hair stylist, manicurist, wardrobe consultant, dentist, AND AN EFFING WORKING STAY-AT-HOME-MOM all day every day, on call, and no breaks? NO BREAKS EVER? WTeffingF?

Alas, that was ten minutes ago. I have frosted and sprinkled the last dozen cupcakes and they are ready to go for tomorrow. And no, I didn’t have ANY.

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