XX.

PMS (mine, obvs) is not a good mix with a 4-year-old. I couldn’t help but laugh, really, as I was quietly (not so quietly) seething. He’s got this allergic, like, I don’t know. Ball of mucous? Just sitting in his gullet. And I can’t blame him because, I mean, right? But he does this half-throat-clearing thing. On repeat. Every four seconds. (Yes, I timed it. What of it?)

And then there’s Curious Goddamned George. (I think that must be his official given name.) With his monkey noises and crap behavior. Getting into bullshit messes that could have been avoided with a little common sense. Squawking and chirping and bouncing around like a friggen monkey. For a half hour. I had to draw the line at one episode. Even Strawberry Annoying Shortcake is better than that monkey.

And then there’s the hair in my face, the way my shirt keeps riding up, the butter that got everywhere as he attempted to spread it on his toast, the skin on my body that I want to crawl right out of — it’s just not a good scene.

We played a rousing game of “I Spy” in the car on the way to school and it took the edge off, believe it or not. And thankfully I remembered my ear buds for my day of cafe-working. At least there’s Pandora. And Adele. And multiple renditions of “Hallelujah.”

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