So this morning I'm pulling a hoodie over my head and I'm half-awake and I put it on backwards so that the hood goes over my face and I'm all "This sucks." because I hate being awake this early and when you get up at 5:30 pretty much everything feels like it is out to get you. I feel like I have provoked the wrath of some ancient and furious god who would come down from their palace high on a mountain top to gut me and feast upon my entrails, and maybe I'm being dramatic but seriously, this whole hoodie situation is out of control. I mean I can't SEE anything. It's like I've been taken hostage by my clothing and the prospect of lifting my arms up to fix it, seems like some horrible form of torture on par with waterboarding* or listening to Jewel read her own poetry.
So I'm standing there in my blackout hoodie and contemplating the effort that is going to be involved in fixing this shit, and I'm starting to drift back asleep because apparently I'm like a parrot where if you put a blanket over my cage I'm tricked in to sleeping, and that's when the kids come in and start asking me things and I close my eyes and start to have this wonderful daydream where I'm dead, which is fine because then I don't have to fix this stupid hoodie, or know the answer to where is the sock bucket is because I don't sort my socks or fold them into a neat piles to put in drawers, I throw them all in a bucket so that every morning is like a treasure hunt for clean socks. and I also don't have to know if this shade of blue matches her shoes or what "too much" blush looks like, I can just be dead and presumably resting. And now they are bickering about who gets the last package of Pop-Tarts, and I have to impart some genius King Solomon style wisdom that involves telling them to shut up and go away or I'll beat you**.
So they wander off into the far reaches of the house but they're still bickering so I know they're not dead and that is pretty much my job as their Dad, so I should probably get an award of some sort. And I'm still standing there, not able to see and now I'm daydreaming about enjoying a picnic under the shade of a huge tree by a field of whispering timothy grass and for lunch I'm having a delicious chicken caesar salad and there are no Pop-Tarts© anywhere nearby and there are no kids because they have grown up and gotten married and are both brilliant and rich and successful and I keep getting thanked at the Nobel Prize ceremony like every other week and it's a little embarrassing to have two children who are so famous but I'm coping because of all the houses they keep buying me.
And then The Boy runs in and he can't find his underwear which means that when I pull down this backwards hood I'm going to see naked boy bits and who the hell doesn't secure new underwear before discarding the old? That's ridiculous. And that is when I decided that being tired is the new black and I'm so cool I can't stand it. And also that maybe I need an underwear bucket.
Moral: I want a Pop-Tart.
*waterboarding is a kind of torture and not a fun-filled aquatic activity involving a boat and a highly polished piece of wood. You can tell the difference by all the screaming. One sounds like glee and the other is in another language.***
** I would never hit my kids because Whitney Houston once said "Pass that 8-ball!" and also that children are our future, and that makes sense because presently I wish they weren't here.
*** See what I did there? I was all political and thought-provoking, because anyone being waterboarded is probably a foreigner, and then I'm all relevant and topical, and Are those chocolate chip cookies? Yum!