The Crazy Parade begins at 4:30 a.m. Monday - Friday. I fall out of bed, drink some coffee, watch the news, stub my toe on the way to the closet where I can't find the clothes I want to wear, I spend too long in the shower, and waste my last 15 minutes at home swearing at the hair dryer and the drawer that ate my eyeliner.
There are no safe hiding places -- even the bathroom is penetrable.
I can sit on the couch downstairs with my husband and choose from a broad range of thought-provoking reality television shows about taxidermists or moonshiners or prison inmates or swamp people or gunsmiths or weirdos preparing for Sarah Connor's rendition of the end of civilization minus the Terminator. Or I can fight off my children with a large stick and carry my laptop from room to room while I write about how tired and crazy I am.
I go to bed at 10 p.m. Jerod's snoring usually wakes me up an hour later. Then Ashlyn's crying, Lily needs a drink of water, I have to pee and by then it's 4:25 a.m. Time to wake up and start the parade again.
That's the calmest part of the day.
From there I'm on the freeway with the worst drivers in the world -- idiots who doddle in the passing lane side-by-side with the motorists to their right so it's impossible to get around them -- then I make my living reviewing some the strangest pictures on the Internet, which begs the question at least 100 times an hour, "What is WRONG with people?"
From there I'm on the freeway with the worst drivers in the world -- idiots who doddle in the passing lane side-by-side with the motorists to their right so it's impossible to get around them -- then I make my living reviewing some the strangest pictures on the Internet, which begs the question at least 100 times an hour, "What is WRONG with people?"
I laugh. I scream. I cry. I go home -- venturing out on the road once more with the same idiot drivers who nearly killed me eight hours earlier.
I'm greeted at my front door by two children who are so exhausted they're literally bouncing off the walls to stay awake -- there's my husband and our three cats too. No matter where I go I'm followed by someone who wants something -- toys, food, conversation, entertainment, approval, time ... ME. A relentless ruckus of voices and footsteps marches up the stairs and down the stairs and up the stairs and down the stairs until I can no longer tell if the noises are real or imagined.
I can sit on the couch downstairs with my husband and choose from a broad range of thought-provoking reality television shows about taxidermists or moonshiners or prison inmates or swamp people or gunsmiths or weirdos preparing for Sarah Connor's rendition of the end of civilization minus the Terminator. Or I can fight off my children with a large stick and carry my laptop from room to room while I write about how tired and crazy I am.
I go to bed at 10 p.m. Jerod's snoring usually wakes me up an hour later. Then Ashlyn's crying, Lily needs a drink of water, I have to pee and by then it's 4:25 a.m. Time to wake up and start the parade again.
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