Our alarm clock weighs forty pounds.
Actually, that’s not true. It’s because our alarm clock’s right eardrum ruptured on Saturday morning, so Hubs and I had to haul him in to the pediatrician’s office for a weekend appointment that costs approximately the same amount of dollars that a new mid-sized sedan costs these days, and she pronounced him to be 39.2 pounds.
So… our alarm clock weighs 39.2 pounds, and when it goes off every morning before the hour of 5:30 by hollering, “Hi, Mommy! Hi! Hi there,” I want to get out of bed with my collection of pillows (because high maintenance sleepers require many, MANY pillows for proper nest-building, as well as a ceiling fan and a noise machine and a melatonin-lick, much like salt-licks in cow pastures) and drive myself to a Holiday Inn, where I will put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob and sleep for twenty-six hours straight.
May is killing us, people.
We have had something going on every single night, and the people in my house still expect to eat, and they all grumble about WHERE ARE THE CLEAN SOCKS?
Oh, that’s right. We don’t have any, because MAY and also NO LAUNDRY DONE.
Most nights, I feel like if I don’t just lie down immediately, I’ll fall over and wake up the next morning with the rug’s pattern imprinted on my face.
This pretty much sums it all up:
I’ve turned lesson plans in for the past two weeks, but when the kids show up in my gym and demand a non-planned game of dodgeball, I’m helpless to say no. And when the second graders asked me yesterday, “Can we just shoot baskets,” I simply nodded and cried real tears of joy, because YES! YES, LET’S ALL JUST SHOOT BASKETS AND PRETEND LIKE WE’RE LEARNING SOMETHING IN THE REALM OF PHYSICAL FITNESS. And I’m not even worried about it, because I know my classroom counterparts are all showing movies to their kids and saying things like, “Please watch this for a complete understanding of meiosis and mitosis and plural pronouns, while I sit at the back of the darkened classroom and drink my eighth cup of coffee for the day.”
And then I sort of look like Robert and Jimmy there on the bleachers.
Well, I think May is taking it’s toll on our boys, too, if THIS is any indication:
The boy isn’t much better, and he’s moaning because I’ve made him eat hot lunch twice this week. It’s because when I looked into my refrigerator at 7:30 in the morning, I realized that all I could put into a lunchbox was a frozen pound of raw hamburger and a bottle of mustard.
June, June… wherefore art thou, June?
Y’all have a happy and safe Memorial Day Weekend.