My family isn't cooperating with my blogging. I think I should go on a strike. (A strike on THEM, not my blog... could you even imagine?!?!)
hmmmm. Demands. I need some demands.....
Do not speak to me while I'm at the computer
I shall have one, full, uninterrupted hour EVERY DAY to do whatever I want on the computer.
Children shall take care of themselves. Taylor? Sorry, but you're 10 months now! Learn to hold your own bottle. It's a cruel world out there. I'm only trying to help.
DadGuy? when you're watching TV on the computer instead of on the TV and I ask you politely to switch? Just do it. Watch TV on the TV. Heinous, I know. Also? Don't look over my shoulder or ask what I'm writing about. I don't know. it's just a bunch of random nonsense leaking out of my head but if you ask me one more time, it might take a nasty turn....
On that same note, if you can see and hear me typing, (which I know you can. I'm actually pretty sure that everyone in this house has great eyesight, what with being the one that does the doctor visits/insurance paperwork/ prescription picker-upper and all... what was I saying?) Oh yes, if I'm typing? Go. Away. The more peace I have, the faster I am. Odd I know how I can actually get work done if I'm not having to focus on something else.
I also would appreciate it if you could put your underwear in the laundry hamper. Yes, you (you know who you are.) See, because as I've explained to you eighty hundred times before, that peeing in the toilet DOES NOT MEAN you need to change your pants. It's one of the glorious side effects of being toilet trained. They don't get dirty.(well, yes they get dirty eventually but not every 2 hours. but of course I won't tell you this becuase you're so little and it's get all confusing and now you're just looking at me as though I was that robot teacher from Charlie Brown that no one understands. wha-wha-whomp.) Short story is that you only change your underpants after a shower. That's all, the end.
Also, I think we need to clear up the whole mess about drinking. See, you can use one cup for the whole day. Unless you're having a different beverage. But seeing as how we drink WATER, it only requires one cup. ONE.
If I'm sitting here at the computer desk, and looking like I'm not working, and unshowered and such, please don't ask me what I'm doing. I'm obviously debating what task I should tackle first.
I think I should mention this one too... If you get it out, you put it up. Shocker, I know. The thing is, I don't know where you're watch is. Or your jeep. Or your girl. Or your wallet for that matter. I'm not responsible for your things. And if you don't take care of it, why should I? I mean, I take care of the things that I use. No really. I do. See that bathroom? It's clean and stocked. The kitchen? Ditto. Dinner's in the making. However, I didn't at any time today play with your truck. Which means I don't really know where it is. Which also is my roundabout way of telling you that I don't care much either. If it's so important, than how did you lose it? I don't understand.
Tad, I demand that you not be crazy. Just for a lil bit. Because you, my friend, are insane.
Blayne? As much as I love you? I've already kissed your sweet face a LOT. And I know we're best friends but that doesn't mean we have to be touching all the time. Kinda like me and Daddy, I like him a lot but we don't have to touch all the time.... and can you stop screaming please? Your squeals are starting to attract the neighborhood dogs again.
Daniel. Good ole Mr. Danny Mack. Can you spare me a tantrum or two? I know that you want more fishies. But you just ate eleventy hundred and let's face it, anymore and it'll be diarrhea central. I don't want that, you don't want that. Get over it. You're not having anymore.
Also, I know we have this conversation a lot, but bikes are outside toys. So are wagons. And jeeps. And that big dump truck that's filled with mud? Outside. Sorry.
Taylor, just take a nap already. It's Nap-TIME. NAPTIME.. n-a-p-t-i-m-e. It's the same time every. day. Cause you know that this mommy is all about routine. And don't tell me how you're not tired. Cause after your little baby hissy fit? You sleep for FOUR HOURS. So, do me a favor, close your eyes, shut your mouth, go to dreamland.
And DadGuy, Glorious DadGuy. I love you, but gotta tell you, I'm over it. I'm over the "to move or not to move?" thing. To go back to school, or not go back to school. To change my major, or not change my major. To get highlights, or shave my head.... I'm just over it. As long as you give me a check every two weeks, I'll smile and deal with it. But I'm not really listening. Kinda like you do to me... Annoying as all hell, isn't it?
So, until all of those things up there are figured out? I'm on a break. So don't talk to me. Cause I don't wanna hear it.
