Rest Area

I've been chain smoking and driving, and three minutes ago I threw a bottle of whiskey out the window and watched it shatter against a road sign.

Now I've pulled off to the side of the road while listening to, "and life's like an hour glass glued to the table, no one can find the rewind button dear, so cradle your head in your hands and breathe, just breathe".

While I'm here, I'll go ahead and cop to the fact that I don't actually smoke cigarettes, and that maybe once in my life I could have had a shot of something with Southern Comfort in it. I don't even toss gum out my window, let alone something that could shatter. Also, I drive a Mommy-mobile.

In essence, my writing is my driving and what I'm really doing is coping, because that is what I do. I can't be driving around like a drunken maniac with two kids in the back seat. They need me. Besides, Big A would have zero issues with contacting the appropriate authorities. ("Additionally, Judge, you might be interested in this little black book I've kept over the years. Yes, I also thought that categorizing the entries was an act of brilliance. It posed a slight challenge since some of the logs could definitely fit into one or more categories, but overall, I am glad you can appreciate the effect. I, too, love color graphs. Where do I need to sign"?)

Last night when I picked them up from the sitter, Little A was a disaster. She'd skipped her nap and had had an episode that day with her diaper and the contents there-of and the wall next to the crib she was supposed to be napping in. (One of the many reasons that you will never hear me say that I pay too much for day care. How do you put a price on that one?)

Little A was pulling her hair and trying to set herself free from her car seat, while Big A looked at her for a few moments.

Big A: Mom?

Me: Yes

Big A: Little A is a train wreck.

Me: Well, at least she comes by it honestly.