Zinnia Hope, author of multi-genres and erotic romances; also writing as J. Emberglass
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Okay, chicken kicking time—and some therapeutic bi...
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Sunday, September 3
It’s Sunday afternoon here on the farm. I haven’t felt well since about Tuesday. I awoke yesterday morning to a massive headache, plugged sinuses, coughing fits due to the sinuses, nausea, and the lovely light speed trips to the porcelain god where you don’t know which end is going to blow up first. Oh, and let’s not forget the marching band booming in every bone and joint. This is day number two of feeling like total shit. Please ignore the errors in my post. I’m bored with TV and reading, but really feel to badly to even type.
My toddler has been a major pill since Thursday. He’s usually a sweet, mellow little guy, but I guess the boredom of not having brotherly chaos caught up with him. After several temper tantrums (him, not me), Friday progressed into Mama feeling horrible and needing to do a load of laundry. A couple temper tantrums later—the toddler, not me, really!—he decided to shove my kitchen rocker up to the counter, grab the sponge out of the dishpan and fling water all over the room. Next, he smeared mashed potatoes, a part of his lunch, all over his Sponge Bob chair and on the carpet. He followed up with grapes ground into the carpet.
I cleaned up the mess, keeping the cusswords to a minimum. We stepped outside to hang up clothes, where the Monster Toddler dumped a nasty, dirt-encrusted rag he’d found (turns out it was a tee shirt one of my boys had stripped off while playing.) in on top of my basket of wet laundered clothes. I had to shake leaves, dirt, twigs and pebbles from every piece of clothing. Monster Toddler followed this up with breaking a citronella candle pot.
Finally, FINALLY, naptime arrived. He went down in a blaze of glory. After all, he’d had a busy day terrorizing me, so it didn’t take long for him to konk out. I, on the other hand, withdrew the habanera-laced candy bar from its tin, washed it off, and took it to the sofa where I ate it mumbling and twitching while trying not to rip out my hair.
I. Need. A. Kid-free. Vacation.