Murphy's Law of Husband's Leaving Town

So, my husband was gone all of last week. NBD, I thought, because we do this every year. Frankly, he gets left home alone with the kids a lot more often than I do, and he always survives quite nicely. Even I’ve survived quite nicely in the past. (Okay, so last year I blew a fuse in the kitchen and ended up making pancakes on the griddle in my living room, with my coffee maker plugged in on my desk BUT WHATEVER WE’LL IGNORE THAT INCIDENT.)

But this time, oh, this time.

Well, to start off, we’re potty training the two youngest children. I say we, there is no I in team after all, but there was an *I* this week when I was left alone to do it myself. Side note: There is no ‘wine’ in potty training either, but there SHOULD BE.

So, to start it off, I’ve got two potty training kids. Then, the day my husband leaves, Danger decides it is really cool to climb out his brother’s window. The window goes to the fenced in yard, fine, whatever, but I ended up with a FLY infestation as a result of the frequently open window. Like 20 flies in my kitchen. So I had to hang up fly strips, which is not pretty, FYI. >.>

Other than that, the weekend was okay. Enter Monday. Diva broke both pairs of glasses, Danger made the world’s biggest shaving cream mess, and the pair of them decided my creamer makes an awesome drink and every time I left the room they were pouring themselves glasses of my pumpkin spice creamer, and making massive sticky messes every time. Then Danger would jump out the window. By nightfall it was raining, our first hard rain of the year, and I discovered our new house has a massive leak in the roof. And then I did this: 

By the end of the day, I’m exhausted, and I have to get up 6:00 to get drama to school. So I fall asleep and I sleep like a rock. Until I wake up at 4:00 because the husband’s amp has spontaneously turned itself on and is emitting a high pitched whining noise that probably made our poor dog’s ears bleed. I get up, turn it off, go back to sleep.

And then at 5:00…

*scratchscratchscratch*

I wake up to that.

*scratchscratchscratch*

WTH!?

*scratchscratchscratch*

I’m all kinds of freaked out, clutching my covers to my chest in utter terror, because, let’s face it, I’m the only adult in this house and this is NOT THE MOST SECURE THING EVER. Because WHO IS GOING TO PROTECT US FROM BURGLARS!? Surely not me. I’m weak, and I have tiny t-rex arms!! THINK OF THE CHILDREN.

*scratchscratchscratch*

Okay, not a burglar. But probably a mouse. EWWW.

Unless it’s not a mouse. Unless it’s a wolverine. In the closet. CHEWING ON A CAT CORPSE. (totally not dramatic, that’s what it sounded like. Exactly. Google that sound effect if you can: Wolverine chewing on a cat corpse. I bet it is a real thing, and I bet it sounded JUST LIKE HOW THIS MOUSE IN MY CLOSET SOUNDED)

So I just gave up and got up. Exhausted, already cranky. And thus, began the longest day. But I did eat cookies for breakfast in protest of how JACKED UP the day started.

I can hardly even break it into specific incidents but it basically felt like the prisoners had revolted and the guard was under attack. Finally, I loaded everyone up and we went to town. We got Diva’s glasses repaired. And NO JOKE twenty minutes later, Danger stepped on them getting out of the fan and torqued them beyond repair. *cries*

That day, when I got home…this happened: 

Wednesday I got revisions AND line edits from my editor. Which I was SO looking forward to, but had no time to do, which, for me, is its own kind of hell.

This is that Murphy’s Law stuff. The husband goes out of town and the world explodes. (Because he’s back now and they’re acting like fricking angels and the wolverine has totally not returned, so whatever.)

It’s funny how often I feel like I’m so TOTALLY A GROWN UP NOW. Only deep down, I’m kind of not. Or maybe this is what being a grown up is. Maybe it’s not handling everything perfectly, or feeling like you just HAVE IT DOWN. Maybe it’s not so different than being a kid.  Except, now when I’m mad at life I can eat cookies for breakfast. Yes, I can. You’re not my real mom.

That’s actually one thing I love love about this blog, this group, and the greater online community. I know I’m not the only one ready to pull their hair out at the end of the day sometimes. I’m not the only one who wants to hide in a closet with the last Snickers bar because I DON’T WANNA SHARE. I’m human, and sometimes I’m immature, or tired, or worn to a frazzle, but so is everyone. And it doesn’t mean I failed. It doesn’t mean you failed either.

But if there’s a wolverine in your closet you might wanna get it looked at.

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