I don’t even have anything to blog about. How lame is THAT? I could tell you about the horrendous gas our family has been experiencing (my daughter was the reason for driving with our windows down while going 70 mph down the freeway), but I’m not in the mood. I could tell you about my son going potty for the First Time Ever on his little playschool throne, but he’s only done it one time since then (and even THAT was an accident).
I could tell you about the waterbed I've had since I was three years old, and the painful death it suffered over the weekend. And how I was crushed to see the garbage man whisk it away and crush it along with all the other rotten food, dirty diapers, and waste. Now that wonderful little bed, (the one I learned to tie my shoes on while sitting at the edge of my brand new bed-- the one my mom used to cuddle me in during the middle of the night-- the one I used to imagine there were alligators underneath so I had to literally jump from the door to my bed and then line up all my animals and dolls along the edges so the alligators wouldn't get me-- the one I used to pretend was my stage-- the one I could just sink my body into and never feel that level of comfort anywhere else in this world-- the one I used to cry on when my heart was broken-- the one fitted with my Care Bear sheets (my pillow with Rainy Day Bear, the moon, and stars on one side, Funshine Bear and the sun on the other)-- my other set of sheets with Rainbow Brite, my pink bedspread with Holly (that little pioneer girl with a bonnet)-- the one that used to leak right in the middle of the bed and I sometimes forgot about until I sat down into a pool of cold water-- the one my mom and I used to put cleaning solution into then roll out all the air bubbles-- the one my mom used to stay up with me during all hours of the night helping me to cram for that science test the next day-- the one that I slept on throughout my childhood and high school years-- the one I took to college, and the one I gave to my daughter when she graduated from her crib at the sweet age of 17 months old...) now that same bed is lying somewhere in a rotting, disgusting, fly and mosquito infested swampland we call a dump. Am I sad? Yes. Did I think I would be so affected by this? No. It comes as a complete shock to me too, so you're not alone.
I could tell you about ALL those things, but I'm simply too tired. The kids have not been sleeping well, my stomach still isn't right, we have no savings because I suck at budgeting, I miss my mom, I wanted to sell my dog to the gypsies today, I have a yucky cut on my forehead from Tiny striking me with a "childsafe block," (and now it's infected and looking stupid), my hair is in need of some attention, I get my feelings hurt way too easily, and the kids have not been sleeping...did I mention that one?
Okay, then. I'm done.