Dear Sleep,

Sleep, why have you forsaken me? You and I used to be BFFs - we'd spend so much quality time together on the weekends. I was godmother to your new puppy, we'd give each other manis and pedis, we'd do shots of goldschlager and play beer pong together while watching the Dukes of Hazzard. Remember how much time we spent together in college? So many hours, days, weeks even - in class, in the library... Where has our friendship gone? Yes, there are extenuating circumstances that are difficult to overcome. But you and me, we're stronger together than we are apart. If you wrap your Sleepy arms around my head a little tighter, you and I might get some old-school QT. Come back to me Sleep - don't mind these little people who are trying to scare you away because I will always love you.
Please come back, and not just for a visit, but for good. I still have your bunkbed set up with the glow in the dark stars just the way you like them.
XOXO,
Kate

There's just something about a 3 year old that swears.

Something awesome, that is. He's still young enough so that when he throws his hands up in the air and says 'where's my fuckin' blankie??' with that look that I know could be transplanted directly onto my face the next time I'm looking for my keys or wallet that makes my mother heart fill up with twisted pride. My kid was in speech therapy, he didn't talk for a long time and then when he started he was very hard to understand so I am super proud that he has enough of a grasp on the English language that he can add in obscenities, and do it with such casual panache. He locked himself in his room a couple of weeks ago, and the best part - the only good part, really - of the whole fiasco was him shouting 'open the fucking door!' Why he has latched on to 'fuck' I'm not sure, because I pepper my speech liberally with any expletive I can muster in time to work in the sentence before it comes screeching out of my mouth - but I guess he has decided that he will go straight to the top of the curse word hierarchy, right up to the big kahuna.
I also love that he's starting to make up words that I am pretty sure are swears but since I don't speak threeyearold I can't call him on it. For instance, 'Pum'. When I tell him to do/not do something he says 'okay Pum Mummy' - hmmm. Good one, kid.
Now I know that it won't be funny for much longer, and I surely do hope I'm not there the first time he drops the F Bomb at my in-law's house (although secretly I will never be prouder, b/c something about sitting uncomfortably in that stuffy living room certainly makes me want to say and do inappropriate things) and we really need to break him of this before we send him off to be taught by nuns next year at the crunchy preschool we have picked out. But for now when we are in the car and get cut off in traffic and I hear floating up from the back seat 'fucking car' I just want to turn around, give him a salute, and choke out 'Well said, son. Well said.' as I wipe a tear from my eye.

I hate bathing.

Hate it. It is such a waste of time. I'm like a 7 year old boy when it comes to getting me to clean myself. I need to plan ahead for it, psych myself up, set aside some time that I'm not going to get involved in anything else, and just DO IT. If I ever get really rich I am going to pay some old blind lady to bathe me, or construct some sort of car wash type contraption in my bathroom to get the job done quickly.
I also hate emptying the dish rack. I will pile that fucker so full of dishes that one wrong brush against an outlying saucer will send the whole damn thing screaming to the floor. And the silverware - oh the silverware. I haven't emptied that part in months. Why bother? It's like making your bed.
Which leads me to making the bed. I do like the bed neat and the sheets tucked in at the bottom before I get in it, but when I get up in the morning I don't look back man, I'm off. No time to fuck around in the bedroom. Which may be why my bedroom looks like a 7 year old boy's bedroom. Hmmm. Noticing a pattern here. Anyway, yeah - the bed making. Someday maybe I'll be one of those people who gets up in the morning before somebody is crying (that somebody could be me or one of the kids - never can tell) and can take the time to make the bed, get dressed WHETHER OR NOT I'M LEAVING THE HOUSE, (oh remind me to talk about jeans and their place in the home - or lack thereof) eat breakfast like a grownup - you know, be a productive member of society instead of somebody who drifts from one pair of pajamas to the next, somebody who realizes on Thursday that she hasn't left the house since Sunday and is really okay with that other than a vague feeling of unease, somebody - and this is the bottom line here folks - who wears underwear every day. (I don't wear squirrely covers to bed, so typically I'm going commando b/c I'm almost always dressed in what I rolled out of bed wearing and jeez isn't my husband a lucky man)
I'm not as bad as I seem. If you bumped into me on the street (fat chance of that!) I'd be sweet-smelling and well dressed(ish). I just don't like doing boring things.
And I don't ever - EVER - wear jeans in the house. They are reserved strictly for leaving the comfort of my home. I do not understand people who can hang out at home in a pair of jeans, how is that comfortable? And don't get me started on wearing shoes around the house. That is just wrong and un-American.