Honey, I Hate To Break It To Ya...

This week hasn't exactly turned out how I had hoped and planned it would.

Funny how having children who like to stab 12 inch long gashes into your furniture while you aren't looking messes with your life.

Between emergency couch repair (Viva le duct tape!), emergency medical repair (yay free Canadian health care!), work and the seven 160 litre Rubbermaid containers filled with Christmas decorations sitting on my deck waiting to be scattered merrily around my house, I haven't had time to open that box of wine in my pantry to shower let alone get everything crossed off my to do list like I wanted.

Not only am I becoming a little fragrant, but so is my Christmas tree. A giant 8 foot monstrosity of fake alpine goodness is outside on my deck, tripping any one who tries to walk over it, while every dog in the neighbourhood comes over to lift it's leg and christen it with yuletide cheer. When I finally bring the damn thing inside to decorate it, my house is going to be festive with the scent of dog piddle.

Merry F*cking Christmas y'all.

You might say I'm a wee over whelmed right now.

In fact if one more person asks me to do one more tiny little thing, no matter how insignificant, I'm fairly certain my head may explode.

And yes dear children, that includes feeding you. Consider yourselves lucky. You'll always be able to drink tap water from the hose and munch on the Rice Krispies I spilled on the floor. There are starving kids in Africa who would kill for the privilege.

As for the rest of my responsibilities, well, I'm getting there. My fish can't see through the algae covered glass, my dogs are drinking out of the toilet bowl, my husband has forgotten what my voice sounds like but dammit, I will deck these halls with boughs of pee covered holly come hell or come high water. I will post on my blog. I will get my ridiculously handicapped little boy through each and every medical crisis he likes to toss at me, and I will do all of this plus rip off a foot long section of blue duct tape to cover the gash my other son joyously tore into my over priced and now worthless couch.

I will get it all done. *Just keep repeating this like a mantra, darling.*

I just may look like this while I'm doing it:

What? I never said I'd be good looking getting it all done. Motherhood is an ugly thing.

Don't say I didn't warn you.