No really... it's right there. I almost stepped on it. It's not a cute small, spunky one either. It's a puffed, fat, shapeless cheeto waiting to be stepped on by an unsuspecting traveler and become ground into my hardwood floor. It will forever be the "Orange step," sporting a million tiny specks of cheesy crumbs in a spray Pollock would admire.
Yes, I have children. Droves of them. Herds of them. O.k. three, but it feels like a small fleet of flesh-eating pterodactyls, shrieking as they ravage chicken nuggets from their perch on top of the coffee table. I'm not making it through the week without daily asking myself, "What was I thinking? I can't do this. I should just get a paying job."
Seriously, I'm drinking three cups of coffee or more a day just to keep up with these little weasels and that's still not enough. Today I thought I'd get Noah excited about learning by going to story time at the library. He fussed the entire time. Walking to the car on our way home, Noah turns to me and says, "I did not have fun!" I do not feel equipped for this full-time mothering thing at all.
*the person buried semi-alive under a tower of dirty clothes, toys, dishes, and crushed mothering dreams