The girls and I, with ‘Papa in tow, went to the Children’s Museum today. This is the third museum for children that I have had the honor of attending. I take issue with calling it a museum. A museum is a vault for the expensive, the old, the interesting. It has history and value. So, let’s call a duck a duck and call our outing a visit to an “indoor park/library/craft and science-y place with lots of mommies sitting on benches nursing tiny tots while their preschoolers (and many, many older yet unsupervised children…it was spring break around here after all) run wild and wipe their snot all over the slide/puppet/door handle that my children want to touch (breathe here to continue), brightly colored walls and objects and noise at every turn to guarantee a meltdown in the parking lot after leaving” . That will be $7 per person, please.
The girls did meltdown on the way home because I was neglectful in that I didn’t pack juice boxes or snacks for the post-play carseat ride. After 20 minutes of ear-bleeding bawling, I turned to my dad and say “and it’s little wonder that I’m crazy at the end of the day.”
Dad: You think this will last forever but it won’t. It will be over before you know it.
Me: I’m in survival mode. My every day is like this. With no end in sight.
Dad: Your mom did this with three kids.
Me: I do this alone. Every day. Two is enough.
Dad: I don’t know how to help you.
My thought? Quit talking. Every cliche that spouts out makes me more and more agitated. My life is hardly chiched. I know he’s beyond not knowing what to say and maybe that is it even still. He doesn’t know how to help me. He wants to make it better. But it was all I could do to not scream “Stop talking!”
That? Right there? Is better living through pharmaceuticals. All hail Lexapro, keeper of random crying jags, outbursts and tendencies to sleep all day. Thank you for blessing the masses with self-restraint, decision making abilities and good clothing choices. (and a little shout out to my pal xanax…it’s been a while buddy but I haven’t forgotten you *smooch*)
Two more shows and then we will be headed home. It’s time. I like having my laundry done (although “Dry Clean Only” generally doesn’t mean “wash with like colors and tumble dry”…there’s $70 down the drain), children tended and whatnot but, with everything else, there is a price to pay. Like being the only one they know with internet access. And having to click on every link possible until my computer crashed from the random porn site that came about from trying to find a new switch for their industrial mixer at the restaurant.
As a sidenote: this was the very first time that I have unexpectedly come across porn. With my father looking over my shoulder no less. I didn’t see much but that chick should have looked into the butt bleaching that is so popular with the kids these days.
I’m ready to be at my own house and I’m interested to see what 3 and a half weeks worth of mail looks like and how many messages my answering machine will hold. I also miss my blissful bamboo sheets, downy fresh pjs and dvd collection. I would like to say that I will go home and be horizontal until I feel like getting up again but then I’d be a liar.