Back To Square One


I’m back!

I decided to try and breathe new life into this blog, mainly because the writer’s itch was creeping up on me yet again. I’m no longer attempting to lose weight, which is the main reason I started this blog, to try and keep myself accountable, but I am definitely still losing brain cells and patience by the minute, thanks to the seemingly endless shenanigans of my three heathens children. Speaking of which, last time I updated this blog, I only had two children. Now I have three. Which might be part of the reason why I am no longer attempting to lose weight. Every time I attempt to lose weight, I get pregnant. If the pursuit of thinness means getting knocked up again, then pass the Ho-Hos, because homey don’t play that.

On the topic of Ho-Ho-(Hos), we are just four days from Christmas. We took the kids to see Santa yesterday, and all of the Ho-Ho-Hos in the world were not enough to make Mallory want to sit on his lap. The ironic part was that I dressed her in a shirt that said “I Love Santa”. If the agonizing screams of torture flying from that child’s mouth were any indicator, she most certainly did not love Santa. However, the boys both willingly jumped on his lap, and Carl told Santa he wanted Spongebob and Woody for Christmas, whereas Leland sat there, doing his very best impression of Helen Keller, and said nothing.

With Christmas approaching, I have also prepared myself for the other event that occurs on December 25th: my birthday. I don’t think I have ever met anyone who dreads their birthday, but until you are competing for attention with Jesus Christ, then don’t even talk to me. Christmas Day has got to be the absolute worst day to be born on, ever. Even I refer to my own birthday as a secondary event. While I’m attempting to celebrate my birthday, everyone else is celebrating somebody else’s. I am effectively having a joint birthday party with Jesus Christ every single year. And every year, he’s the cool kid who opens up the gaming console or electric scooter, and then when it’s my turn to open presents, I get a yo-yo, and I only get one present, because everyone at the party apparently thinks I am a giant idiot and won’t catch on that they’re giving me one present for both occasions. And old JC’s over there, snickering in the corner, while I gather my birthday presents (wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper, to add insult to injury), while everyone sings him happy birthday, because all the guests forgot the party was a joint party.

Seriously, if I gave a person whose birthday was in April one present on their birthday, then told them that one present should cover them for their birthday and Christmas, that person would think I was the biggest, crustiest turd that ever roamed the earth.

Luckily, my children seem far more excited for Christmas than I am. Today, we picked up some wrapping paper at the store, and Carl began questioning me as to why I was purchasing this wrapping paper if Santa was the one bringing him gifts. Doesn’t Santa have wrapping paper at the North Pole? Why would he bring unwrapped gifts? Why do you have to wrap the gifts? Why is the sky blue? What is the meaning of life? What is love? Baby don’t hurt me, no more.

After I was done being interrogated, and done providing the most bogus answers ever, I was pleased that he seemed to accept my warped web of lies about Santa, wrapping paper, the North Pole, and the meaning of life. I basically just explained that Santa sometimes drops off unwrapped gifts and lets mommies wrap them so that it’s less work for his elves. As he walked away, I wondered, why do I feel this need to perpetuate this lie? This fake old fat guy isn’t giving my kids presents, I am! Why should he get all the credit? Santa is the equivalent of the guy in the group project who never shows up to anything, never submits his part, yet still somehow slides by, getting an A+ while the rest of the group gets a B-. Yet here I am, year after year, shopping frantically, wrapping and preparing and tweaking everything to perfection so old jolly St. Nick can be the hero. No wonder he’s so damn jolly.

I realize this entire post kind of makes me look like a grinch, but I’m truly not. I do enjoy the spirit of giving and joy that Christmas brings, I enjoy the cooking and baking and togetherness… But I will say this: if I get one more motherlovin’ birthday present in Christmas wrapping paper, shit’s about to get real.

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