One of those days...

It all started at 2:27 AM (which was actually 2:23 AM, but I can't seem to conform to setting my clock like a normal person) when I woke up in a panic that one of my teeth had fallen out. I am sure I could pull some deep rooted meaning out of this but basically I think it stems from the fact I haven't been to a dentist in 4 years (judge me, I do) After running my tongue over my teeth and realizing that there was no gummy hole, I tossed and turned for about an hour thinking about everything from flying to Arkansas with Keygen alone (sigh) to flying back from Arkansas without him (heavier sigh). Finally, I fell asleep. Then at 5:31 (again, my problem with setting a clock) the wretched BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP rudely interrupted my wonderful dream that involved something to do with cheese and classical music.

 Of course, I am the one that sleeps next to the alarm clock, don't ask me why this arrangement exists in my marriage, perhaps it was concocted from the same idea that I should always rummage stuffed socks out of  dirty boots (more on this later). So anyhow, as keeper of the clock, I also am in charge of literally kicking my husband out of bed (this job is usually ok with me) Anyhow, this is moving too slow so I'll jump to the the part where I became dead-eyed and mono-toned.

So Reed leaves for work, and I crawl back into bed. Sounds lucky, right? EXCEPT I happen to live with this little person who always wakes up exactly at that moment where I am just entering the peacefulness of precious sleep. As usual, there is a little hand pulling on mine "Mamma Peeeease!" I try to ignore it. "Mammma!" I turn the other way wondering if it really was necessary that we stopped using a crib. Then he speaks the magic words that he KNOWS will force me to my feet. "Mamma I hungry" And I don't know what it is, but every time he says this phrase I imagine one of those Save the Children Infomericals and I just can't stand the idea of my little baby starving. So I get out of bed and stumble to the kitchen.
"Did you have a good sleep, Keygen?"
"Uh-Huh"
"Do you want some breakfast?"
"Uh-huh"
"Do you want cereal?"
"No"
"Oatmeal?"
"No"
"How about some yogurt?"
"No"
"Are you sure you don't want cereal?"
"Nooooooo"
"Eggs?"
"No egg mamma"
"Banana?"
"No" (I held my breath for this answer because just as I asked it I saw the blackened carcass of what once was a banana setting in the fruit bowl)
"Ummmm, how about some toast with jelly"
"No mamma"
"You sure you don't want some cereal?"
(with raised eyebrow) "No mamma"
"How about some PEANUT BUTTER toast?"
"YEAH!"
I felt like I had just solved Davinci's code.

So I put the bread in the toaster, waited for it to pop out so I could have one of those awesome "I just caught the popping toast" moments and ya know, I think that is one of those moments that is saved for the movies and NEVER happens in real life (I should know, I try every time I make toast) Then, I slathered peanut butter on the perfectly golden bread and I cut the edges off because I guess not liking the crust is something that is engraved in every child's DNA.
I set down at the table and awaited Keygen's inevitable "MMMM this goooooood Mamma" which he always says when he is most pleased with what is on his plate.
Instead, I get "Mamma, I want cereal".

Forehead in palm. "What color bowl do you want?"

Flash forward to early afternoon. Mind you, we had spent an entire morning swinging at the playground in our backyard, swinging at the larger playground a few yards from our apartment, and building various houses for his red and blue power rangers to live in. I felt like it was a pretty productive morning, I was beat, so I was sure little Keygen must be wore out. For two hours, repeat TWO hours, I diligently tried to get Keygen to take a nap. I gotta hand it to the little dude, he is pretty crafty at dodging a nap. First he ran in the living room with a panicked look, "Mamma I peed my bed"
I go to check, I feel it, I smell it. (Hey, when you're a mom you do gross things on the daily) My research proved that it was not pee, but a certain little boy's apple juice strategically spilled in the center of his bed. Still, I change the sheet and tell him to get in.
A few moments later, "Mamma, I poop I poop!!" Not wanting to be fooled again, I do a quick finger check in the back of his diaper. He was not bluffing that time.

After a couple of hours, I was wiped out. I gave up. If he wanted to be awake that bad. Fine. Great. Set a record for being the toddler that stayed up for twelve days in a row. Then, the crazy started. There is something about when a kid is extremely tired they just start losing their mind. First, Keygen pulled out all the rags from the drawer and threw them all over the kitchen floor. Then, he picked up a wooden spoon and smacked me right in the ankle. Just when I thought my patience could take no more, the screaming started. I took a deep breath and decided to do some laundry to ignore it.

Now enters the stuffed gross smelly foul socks in boots.

I love my husband. He is kind. He is compassionate. He is very smart and attractive. He helps around the house and he even does dishes and cooks dinner. But, he has a problem with socks. He leaves them in the middle of the floor, he stashes them under the couch (maybe stash is a strong word, they just happen to end up there) and lately....he wads them up in his boots. This is so disgusting to me.

1.   It is a dirty sock in a dirtier boot, too much dirty at one time.
2.   I have to actually TOUCH the sock to get it out of there (usually I strategically arrange other clothing around the said dirty socks so I don't have to actually make contact with it)
3.   I don't like the texture of day old sweaty, dirty, stinky socks. They are all stiff and crunchy, ugh, makes my teeth chatter just thinking about it!

So anyhow, after my disaster of a morning, needless to say I was in no mood for dirty stinky boot socks, but there they were. I let out an exasperated sigh that I really wanted to be a full blown scream. I sat down on the edge of the bed and I seriously contemplated making all of his shirts belly shirts and all of his pants booty shorts.

A while later I skyped with Nan and she didn't really seem to share my dramatic irk about the super energized two year old and stinky dirty socks. Instead, she tried to tell me how thankful I should be for having such a good little boy and a husband that loves me. If looks could kill, she was a gonner in .05 seconds. Poor Nan, she puts up with me even in my most impossible moments.

Finally, Reed came home. Rather, he entered the wrath which is that of Sheree. He ended up taking Keygen to run a few errands and left me to bring myself a couple octaves down from insanity. It helped. I needed a few minutes alone. I got caught up on some school work and tried to find my happy place. THEN, after dinner we had the crazy idea to go to the store. Tired two year olds+grocery store=natural disaster.

Once there, Keygen of course was a little whiney, a little moody, being very much a two year old. Then, I saw a woman with that all too familiar zoned out look. It was in that moment I realized today wasn't so rough. Dealing with one kid wasn't that terrible. After all, I could be like her...and have 4 of them.