I’m a shitty mother. I’m on my second day of temporary single-motherhood. In all seriousness, I can’t fathom how single mothers function without losing their minds. I take great comfort in the fact that David will be home tomorrow night. In the meantime, I hope that lousy bastard is enjoying his peaceful weekend at a hotel sans children. Asshole.
Day One started out nicely enough. Gwen cried when she found out that her Daddy wasn’t coming home. I hugged her and provided vast amounts of comfort, but she continued bawling until I finally told her to cut the dramatics. A visual representation of my level of patience when it comes to whining little girls is this: o. Yes, that’s right. My patience could fit in that tiny little ’o’ that I typed back there.
As the day wore on and I began to dread the complete lack of “me” time I’d enjoy over the next 72 hours, I decided to fight fire with fire. Off I went to the grocery store to stock up on crappy food that we wouldn’t normally eat. Okay, let me rephrase that. I bought a bunch of crap that under normal circumstances, I’d never let them eat but Daddy would because he’s the nice one. I bought the ingredients for cupcakes, I bought microwave popcorn to drizzle with Reese’s peanut butter chips and Nestle chocolate chips (you’re welcome for the shout out, corporate giants who peddle crappy food to my children). I also stocked up on pizza dough and all the fixings, then rented Despicable Me. Those kids rolled over on their Daddy and declared me the nice one right there in the grocery store. Suckers.
We baked cupcakes together and I only yelled once. I let them frost their own cupcakes then eat two. I let them make their own mangled pizzas but couldn’t refrain from adding broccoli to the toppings. It was a good night. The kids went to bed a bit later than usual and I knocked back two glasses of wine before passing out from a mixture of exhaustion and booze. This being nice crap isn’t easy.
Day Two had a bit of a bumpy start. For a week, I’ve made David check the mouse traps that I set in the cabinet holding the dog food. For a week, the mice have successfully avoided death by Victor. Well, I think that one of those furry little bastards was waiting until David went away to sacrifice himself.
I’m not one of those women who shrieks and jumps on a chair at the sight of a mouse. I actually think they’re kind of cute. We happen to have field mice with those big, black teardrop shaped cartoon eyes, long whiskers, a furry white under belly. After the rats in Boston, these little critters look like a Beatrix Potter illustration come to life. However, I don’t want them in my food. Dead mice freak me out and there he was, laying in the cabinet with a smooshed head, rigor mortis and that long tail. I shrieked and slammed the cabinet shut. Gwen and Kate each mimicked my performance while Joe barely registered a reaction.
Much to the delight of my children I found a paper bag and while emitting an insane sounding, “OMIGOD, OMIGOD, OMIGOD” over and over again, I picked up the trap and sealed that stiffened little creature into his tomb. The kids all giggled when I ran to the garage to pitch the corpse of our tiny thieving friend. I performed a shrieking heebie-jeebie dance in honor of the sacrificial rodent. He’s entombed in a Baby Gap bag, still wearing his trap. He had a good life and spent his final days noshing on expensive dog food. God Bless Mouse.
I don’t care how cute they are, if his buddies come looking for him tonight, they’d better watch it! Another Victor is baited and ready to take out the next rat bastard who tries to filch the dog kibble.”