Week 2 was about as uneventful as Week 1. Except for several injuries and revelations (not the four horseman kind, the you-can-use-twice-as-much-peanut-butter-in-these-cookies kind).
I went super homemaker on that ass and whipped up not only the best pulled pork to ever be crock-potted, but I baked! I baked a mess of peanut butter cookies for Rob's officemates for Veterans' Day, as most of them are vets. Apparently, I cannot read directions anymore because I've been really messing up some recipes lately. This time it was putting way too much peanut butter in the cookies. Well, my subconscious loves peanut butter and knows better than the "cooks" at Cooks.com because these cookies were delicious. I also had a few Milk Duds lying about just begging to be baked into a peanut butter cookie. I am a cookie genius.
This week Christmas came early for Claire in the form of her first kitchen playset. Okay, if any of you are getting all "You shouldn't enforce gender roles and stereotyping," on me, refer to my first post and get the f off my blog. If Claire had been Clarence he/she would still have gotten said kitchen playset. Pretending is fun and a very important part of development, so get off my back. Besides, Claire makes a mean plastic skillet of sticker bacon and eggs. I'm sure it's laden with BPA or something.
Back to the kitchen set. Whilst putting together this thing I nearly severed an artery and died. Okay, so it was more like I stabbed myself in the thumb while screwing the faucet together. Then, today I kicked the edge of Miss Baby's bouncer so hard I broke my toe (Rob says it's not broken, but unless he's got x-ray eyes, I'm saying broken). Parenting can be hazardous to your health! Oh, I should mention that I didn't kick it on purpose. It's tan colored and blends in with virtually every flooring surface we have. I swear I'm not kicking babies.
Which brings me to a point I want to make (in the most round-about way possible) this week on behalf of moms, dads, whomever. Sometimes my children drive me crazy, like literally, they give me anxiety attacks. Sometimes I want to kill them, not literally. These times, however, don't make me love them any less or be any less grateful for my beautiful daughters. It's the same way with my husband, whom I want to kill daily. He's a great dad and an awesome husband, but sometimes when I get up in the morning and I can trace his steps through the house based on the cabinets he's left open...well, let's just say I have furiously typed many an angry text message.
Can we all just be honest with ourselves for a minute and acknowledge that having kids is freaking hard? No one is really that good at it, but we all try our hardest. I'm tired of parents who claim that each and every moment of their life is rainbows and sunshine. This can be the most aggravating, tiring, trying job on the planet but it's also the best and most rewarding. Let's just congratulate ourselves on the small stuff like getting out of pjs before 5 p.m. and stop with the "My child knew_____ before she was 2." (Insert ABCs, numbers to 100, Latin, cold fusion science, etc)
There's a Drew Carey quote that goes, "Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar." For us parents, we meet at story time, and we don't hate our job per se, but it's not for the faint of heart or the tender of toes. I'll admit it, sometimes I'm not a fan of this job. Okay, stop gasping and read on: that doesn't mean I don't love my children, my husband or my life. I love them more than I ever thought I could love anything. Sometimes, though, momma needs a break. *and end sad story and violin music* What? You've never locked yourself in the bathroom for a fleeting moment of peace? Liar.
Oh yeah, TV. Rob decided that we should watch the 6:00 news last week. This is a sneaky way for him to get to watch some Sportscenter. I acquiesced only because I realized that I have no idea what is going on out there. Of course the first day we have it on there is a meteor-earth near miss. I cried and hugged my babies like the crazy person I am. Maybe the news isn't such a good idea. On to Week 3!