I'll set the stage just to make it easy for y'all. So I'm bone-tired and ready to just drop after a two week spree of absolute fucking insanity, no time to breathe, school ending and related activities, ballet practice and extra studio time for the upcoming recital, and the basics like blinking, breathing, and showering. I've just pulled dinner (salmon packets with dill, green onion, salt, pepper, garlic, and wild caught salmon) out of the oven to set next on the table, and am making sure we have a towel in Buttercup's bag for swim class in an hour.
Walking takes actual thought. I'm cognizant of the fact that I am blinking and am considering putting my eye-lids on a diet. And Buttercup, who was grounded from television for the day by me this morning is now sitting quietly in front of one of her favorite Nick Jr. shows because I'd rather go back on my word right now and be allowed to not think more than I am currently capable of than be forced to converse and answer questions like Mama, do vampires have pet mosquitoes? Because no matter how I answer, she'll already have decided that they do and I'll be trying not to burst out laughing imagining Edward walking along with a tiny glittering mosquito on a teeny tiny diamond studded leash.
Considering the fact that I've fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion the last four nights by midnight (which is when I usually start writing for the day), it's pretty easy to figure out that I'm lucky I'm not getting paid to lose my fucking mind because I'm about to pass GO on three writing deadlines. I'm a former newspaper reporter, people. I might not know where I set my car keys five minutes ago and kill every plant I own because they can't scream at me to remind me about that watering thing, but I'll be damned if I miss a deadline.
I'm trying to plan the best way to portion the rest of my day. The next three hours are shot because we leave for swim in a bit and because we live in the sticks, I've got a 45-minute drive each way for 30-minutes in the pool, plus me eating dinner after arriving back home and getting Buttercup upstairs to bed. After she's asleep, there's the unloading and reloading of the dishwasher, the preparing of The Husband's lunch cooler, and the Psyching Myself Up to Do Something Productive while wasting time on twitter before I can actually and truly get to work.
But then it will be midnight and I'll be tired enough to realize I can't string a coherent sentence together verbally, let alone type one out on a keyboard. So I will go upstairs and pass out knowing I will wake up even more behind than I already am in the morning. There will be a frenzy to get as much done as I can in the morning with the crazy basics in our life before driving Buttercup to school so I can rush off to my first appointment with the OBGYN who is going to tell me if I'm allergic to my lady bits and before hurrying back to pick Buttercup up from my girlfriend's place in time for her to make it to wherever it is she needs to be by 5:15 p.m.
Buttercup is on the couch putting on her shoes and babbling about how she can't wait to see her swim teacher, I've just auto-started the engine on the Yukon so we don't bake the moment we drive off, and when I sigh as The Husband walks up to kiss me, he blinks.
"What's wrong with you?"
"I'm just exhausted." I yawn.
"You're tired? Why?"
"I'm too tired to explain," I say, after deciding killing him would take too much physical effort. "Just read the blog post later."
"Right," he says. "I'm assuming this means you don't want to have another baby?"
The man might enjoy his role as designated asshole in the family a little too much sometimes, but he's no idiot. Mama's tapped out and maybe that saying about God only giving us what we can handle has something to do with my ovaries refusing to pony up an egg that is willing to turn itself into a baby.
"You, my dear, are a fucking comic." I whisper into his ear and kiss him as we leave for swim. "Only if the baby comes out a 16-year old with a driver's license. I need a break."