The Next Day


Ya know what blows? A fun night for Mom and Dad inevitably means that the next day you contemplate actually killing your kids on multiple occasions. Matt and I both agree that it is worth it for only for a very select handful of events a year. Like, a little fun is fine. That can be a regular-ish occurrence. Usually after a little fun, the kids are like, mildly annoying the following day. A little more screaming, some extra time-outs, but nothing serious. When Matt and I have a REALLY fun night (the kind where you pour the extra couple drinks, eat four chocolate-peanut buter squares at 12:30pm, and go to sleep with glitter-gel on your face), the minute my eyes open in the morning I am like, “FUCK! NO!! I’M A MOM! THEY ARE ALIVE! NO!!!!” The minutes feel like days and the hours feel like decades and by 3:30pm I am sure that someone in the house is not going to survive past dinner.


Well, Sunday was one of those days. My parents actually kept them until like 11am which I thought was going to be really helpful, but somehow it still felt like I had them for eighty-two hours before it was bedtime. Rex just kept saying, “Mom? Jeez, Mom. Are you feeling okay?” No. No, Rex I am not because I am currently sweating out Uncle Gary’s Spicy cheese dip and Vodka and a midnight calzone. GET OFF ME.

By 4pm they had already exhausted their television attention span so I got out my laptop and pulled up Youtube to switch gears. So, from about 4-7pm with a short dinner break somewhere around 5 (pre-packaged mini muffins, string cheese, and fruitloops for anyone looking for some culinary inspiration) they watched videos like this, on repeat…

Oh, you don’t know what that is?! That’s a fucking AYE AYE. And you better not live here if you don’t know. Because I am not even sure how Rocky knows about these frightening little creatures, but he is obsessed. Every day to and from school I need to tell him “An Aye Aye Story”—usually one that consists of him and Rex sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night to climb up a tree and fight one of these fuckers. And lately he makes me tell him that when I find him fighting the Aye Aye that I get mad, but that Matt doesn’t and yells at me, “Let them fight! Let them be independent men!” It is so so weird and I don’t know where he comes up with ANY of it. And it’s actually not me even telling a story, it’s him telling me the story to tell him piece by piece, but refusing to tell it himself. YAY!

After a few hours of YouTube we made it to bed time and everyone was still alive. And although my mothering was not necessarily award-winning—they all got kisses goodnight and once they were down I re-heated the rest of Gary’s dip and polished it off with some left over peanut-butter bars. Might as well be twenty-one, baby.