I think my child is trying to kill me.
Wouldn’t fall asleep until midnight. Up at 6:30. Awake every two hours in between.
She’s like an infant with an expansive vocabulary.
She had the nerve to get a stomach bug the last few days and I’m convinced she did it for the sole purpose of destroying my sanity.
Whenever she fell asleep beside me last night I held my breath as though if she audibly heard my relief, she would awaken to snatch it back.
I hate natural peanut butter. I do. I hate how the oil rises to the top and no matter how careful you are in mixing it with the largest chef’s knife you could fine, the oily mess always spills out all over the counter. Always.
I just don’t understand why everyone I love can’t all decide to purchase a large piece of property and build and live on it together. We could build chicken coops and harness solar energy and have a school and a church and when our kids are trying to kill us, all we’d have to do is send them out in the backyard to find someone else trustworthy to torture. I just don’t understand why this is not happening. Cults have ruined everything.
I love the Disney Channel so much I will watch it with or without El.
I have lost 6 pounds for the third time this year. I must wear a pink bridesmaid’s dress in 7 weeks in which I’m trying my best to neither look like a Hostess Snowball, or lusty Game of Thrones of character. Good Lord. 7 weeks. My friend A, who is all knowledgeable in the fitness/nutrition area informed me that I should give Tabata’s a try. Pat yourself on the back if you knew what that was. I sure as hell didn’t. It sounds like a taco, not a 30 minute sweating session. As it stands, I have watched them on YouTube and that has been enough. I’m attending my first yoga class this week, which means I’ll actually have to move my body along with everyone else or I’ll look like a creeper. So, there’s that.
Out of delirium or exhaustion or a combination of the two, my husband and I have concluded last night that my daughter’s belly button is shaped like the Virgin Mary. It’s slightly more organic than a grilled cheese, no? If anyone knows how to capitalize on this, feel free to instruct.
Bring me some Coffee.
And a train ticket.
And magic sleeping child fairy dust.
And a margarita.
And a million dollars.