The sound of a tin of pencils falling off the table is enough to make me lose my shit today, oh the red, oh the rage,oh that inner child i’ve been looking for is actually an inner demon and I’ve been looking in the wrong place the whole time, inner demon is in hell with hades and hell boy.
Anything that will happen in this vital week of eternal doom just before the river runs red, will happen. It’s 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife, stabbing me in my soul irritating my very sexy and usually calm being, every moment of every day till the volcano erupts and anyone in my path will die after being melted in a hot fiery death, because it’s PMS week this week and everything and anything is going to make me turn into some kind of scary horror movie demon, actually worse than that
probably, most likely, definately.
“Oh fucks sake” My favorite words highlight that one extra thing for me to pick up on groundhog day tins of pencils, bits of play-doh. Then they drop the tin of pencils again and again and i stare at them like an angry dead deer staring down the barrel of a gun and say in my most stern angry mum voice “pick them up NOW“.
They actually picked them up. Rare. But they did, i should be thankful but only it’s 10am technically speaking there are some people, really lucky asshole people where 10am is get up and eat breakfast time (I hate you on PMS week) , but we here in PMS land still have the whole day to go and in that time i have to magically dry 14 billion loads of pissed on toilet training nickers and sandy washing from the weekend, then the stuff that’s already washed is a little bit musty because it’s been in the washing basket wet for like a week and i regret that now because i will get mad when my jeans smell like old ass cheese, the dining room table has become some kind of clothes drying apparatus since Batman pulled off the drier door, good one dick-ed’. I have to shower still and keep the house clean because if i don’t it will build up and tomorrow will be even worse and i know that in that time they will destroy something, they will pull the quilts off their neatly made beds and have so much fun ‘camping’ in the lounge room. I don’t care if you’re having fun, i will crush you, i think silently to myself, i will crush all your dreams because it’s PMS week.
I need to make bread later because we’re a bit broke this week and i know that, that alone will be a drama because:
- They will both insist on sitting on the bench to watch, shoving and crying over who gets to sit the closest while i try to stop them from falling off said fucking bench.
- They will cry because one of them got to eat bread mix not realising its raw bread dough and that it tastes like shit.
- The other one will cry because she ate the dough that does indeed taste like shit, and i will say “i told you!”
- And then the toilet training Flea will pee on the bench and giggle about it and wonder why is mum cross? WHY oh WHY would mummy be cross?
- They will ask to help mix and i will begrudgingly say yes and instantly regret the flour all over the floor which by that stage i’m yelling about fucking cleaning anyway and about how bullshit life is because there is flour on one small area of the floor.
- Last and least they will ask to lick the bowl and i will again explain over screams and tears that bread dough tastes like shit, and they will cry more and at that point i’ve had enough and get them both off the bench and we all will end up crying and screaming on the kitchen floor until their dad walks out and is all like “WTF is going on out here”I will look at batman from the floury floor with tears in my eyes and say :
My 3 year old walks over to me and says “i’m sorry” heartfelt, beautiful little soul filled magic, and instantly feel guilty until 2 year old flea yells “I’M NOT SORRY“, then i am no longer guilty and think, imma gonna throw you both in a box and leave you there till PMS week is over because that’s honestly the safest place for you, you demonic spawn.
Little flea (demons spawn # 3) is toilet training so there’s pee and poo all over the place, and she smacks for attention even though she makes sure she is heard and seen at all times. The worst thing anyone can do to me on PMS week is give me a smack when i’m not ready for it, i will launch your little body across the room into the TV causing a fire and destruction throughout the world; think the volcano in Dante’s Peak.
PMS week is by far the hardest of all the week in my parenting experience because anything sets me off, dropping something, ripping something i didn’t want to rip eg; a flannel that was on the floor and got stuck on my toe making it [the flannel] rip, the kids yelling at me from outside when i’m deeply immersed in writing a blog about PMS, toilet training although she’s doing wonderfully will irritate me to no end because i have to get up off my slowly spreading ass and help her learn. GOD FORBID. I have to help my daughter use the toilet paper at not even 3 years of age.
But night time will come, and bedtime for them will come and i will sneak in there after they are fast asleep and yearn to cuddle those spread out warm smelly breathed little bodies that i so lovingly helped bring into the world, those little spawn i happily and effortlessly (all but one) birthed like a boss. I want to cuddle them and eskimo kiss those noses and warm their little hearts, i will miss them all night long even though they are only rooms apart from mine and i will secretly enjoy the moments they sneak into my bed at night and hit me in the face because my head is not facing them quite enough and secretly wish my eldest kid (although too cool for me now) was in there too.
Without you PMS i would never have had the ability to have children. I shouldn’t be so hard on you.
Thank you PMS, you arrogant ignorant soul destroying jerk.