…when I just want to lock myself in the bathroom and veg out the whole day long. Today is one of those days.
I won’t bore you with the day to day struggles of being a writing SAHM, but I am going to give you a glimpse at the reason I often feel like screaming and running away.
Today I had to mail a submission. Okay, it was a re-submission, but I won’t go into that. Suffice it to say, I spent all morning printing and reworking my cover letter, getting the whole thing packaged up and ready to go. After feeling guilty for neglecting the younger two gremlins, I figured I’d be a good mom and take them to McDonalds so they could play. McDonalds is not my favorite place, but being a good mom, I sacrificed. An hour in the echoing playground and I had a migraine, but, they were happy, so it worked.
We swing by the post office on the way home and run in, where I proceed to use the self-mailing machine to send my package so I don’t have to stand in line with the boys. Sure enough, it all goes smoothly until I notice that the mailing label has the wrong city on it. Hm, that’s odd. I check my label. Same zip. Crap, either I entered it wrong (and by checking the address label, I know I didn’t) or I must have the wrong zip code.
Frustrated, I load the boys back in the car and zip home. Sure enough, the zip is wrong. By this time though, school is almost over so we have to wait for the six-yr old to get home. I print a new label, she gets home, I load everyone back in the car, she grumbles about being hot and hungry, I tell her to deal with it for ten minutes, we head back to the post office.
I take the kids inside. Three kids in the post office. Gee, that’s fun. I ask them to be good for a few minutes, then I’ll take them to DQ. I figure a bribe will work.
We stand in line. There are about four people ahead of us. The older two are playing under the counter. They’re being quiet, so I don’t mind. The baby is on my hip. The older two start getting rowdy. I’m beginning to lose my patience with the slowest line on the planet.
Finally, it’s our turn. I step up to the counter. The older two are yelling now. The guy behind the counter holds up his finger and says, “I’ll be right back.” He disappears into the depths of the post office. Minutes go by. LOOOOOOONG agonizing minutes where my older two children are yelling and running around and the baby is getting fussy on my hip. The line continues to grow until there are at least 15 people behind me. The place is silent except for my uncontrollable children. It’s nine-thousand degrees in there and I’m wearing long sleeves.
The guy finally comes back. I show him the mailing label (which I never affixed to the envelope), tell him I must have punched in the wrong zip. I just want to void it and print a new label. He looks puzzled. “Hm. Not sure we can do that. Let me check.” He disappears. Again.
The three-yr-old starts sneezing. Not just once, but several times in a row. Boogers are flying. The six-yr-old screams, “EW! He’s got boogers all over him!” and runs. The three-yr-old, thinking this is a game, laughs and chases her. I, in my infinite wisdom, did not bring the diaper bag or my purse. Heck, we were just supposed to run in and out. It wasn’t supposed to take ALL FREAKIN’ DAY! The baby burps and pukes all over my shoulder.
By this point, I’ve had it. I’m ready to start pulling fingernails out one by one – and not mine, mind you.
The guy finally comes back. He looks at me and says, “Can you come back tomorrow?”
What do you think I said?
Let’s just say, he didn’t ask again.
The older two are now ticked at me because they are grounded from friends for the rest of the afternoon and don’t understand why they didn’t get to go to DQ.
And I feel like locking myself in the bathroom for the rest of the night.