Toddler Jihad and a Pink Shirt

Out-witted, out-gunned, out-numbered and out of my freakin' mind. But at least I'm in the pink!

I am done to death by the incessant demands that have been made, and I am through with trying to put a happy face on it. It is entirely beyond my ken how any woman does it and I am sick to death of feeling like a failure. Being a SAHM is the everything job, and I can't be great at everything... can't even seem be passingly competent at huge swaths of everything. I keep trying though, and here's the shocker...

I.
Keep.
Failing.
Miserably.

Ha ha! No really, I suck at it! The everything part anyways! Don't listen to those people over there who are saying..."but of course you can't be great at everything! Nobody expects you to!" because those folks are the same people who will give you that "disappointed look" when you screw the pooch on their little patch of everything.

Ya wanna know what really bites? The things I'm pretty ok at are the intangeables and the unmeasurable. Like the unmeasurable talent of refraining from allowing my head to pop off of my neck and go spinning around like a fizzing-whizzer when LaLa turns around to wipe her green-slug mustache of snot off on my bath towel hanging cozily on it's towel bar, instead of using the tissue IN HER HAND like I had just asked. The intangible talent of... well I have to have at least two mama talents... so it must just be sooo crapping intangible that I don't even have any idea what the hooty-patootie it is.

Last night Dadguy was trying to console my weeping self by coming up with things that I AM doing right. Like how happy the girls are. Only, does that mean that any clinically depressed kids out there just have mama's who are suck-butt at raising them to be happy? I think that there is every possibility that the Chaos Girls just came pre-mixed to be happy while engaging in domestic-terrorist activity.

Hmmm... here's a talent- I woulda made a pretty good Marine. You know, with all that sleep deprivation boot-camp crap. Constant barrage by the enemy under hostile conditions, lousy food that you only get three seconds to eat, and that with someone screaming at you from over your shoulder. Double-timing it to storytime with a huge pack on yer back, carseat with twenty plus pounds of all-American baby in the crook of an elbow and two kids singing off-color military marching songs, their faces painted with Crayola washable watercolors in camo patterns.

I don't know but I been told,
Mama ain't a slave cuz she cain't be sold!
Thound off! One, two!
Thound off ! Four, sebbin!

Hmmm let's take this just a step further... I think I'd make a wonderful great big old Marine boot camp Sargent screaming orders and instructions to her hapless little grunts.... only they don't obey because who can respect a drill Sargent that looks like a fat and sloppy housewife who's roots are showing?

So today I bring out the big guns. When all militaristic metaphor leaves me as FUBAR as I started, I put it on, my super-hero-chick-shirt. The mystic pink t-shirt of strength and mesmerising. The one that emphasises my big guns!

I put the shirt on and Pearl instantly stops her anguished wails of "You never let me do anything funnn!" and I swear that her eyes get those funny spiraling swirls in them as her iris's contact and swell.

"Piiiiiiiiink... there are black squiggles on the piiink." she says... only she's actually five months old so it sounds more like "bbbbththhbthhhbehhh."

Two year olds fall limply into blissful naptime slumber at the first sight of the shirt, and four year old girls?... well their cute little girlfriends call up and ask them to play over. I wear the shirt and the dishes wash they ownselves, baby! You can call it pimping, whatever... I highly recommend the shirt.