While I was in the shower the other day, my daughters were fighting and causing me mental havoc. I could no longer enjoy the moment, let alone consider reeeeally enjoying my handheld shower-head. As their yelling continued, I was growing more pissed off. I stopped washing and stormed into their room in a rage looking something like a combination of Jabba the Hut and Medusa, with my small boobs sagging onto my belly rolls and my wet, curly hair sticking out in several directions. The entry of a crazy person made them stop fighting. And while seeing red, I shot out a rapid-fire of verbal bullets that some would think is far too intense for little ears – “you know, if me and daddy drop dead, you only have each other so you better start getting along now! (pow!) And guess what? If you think life sucks now, wait until you get older because I assure you, it only gets worse.(yowza!) I mean, most times I don't like your father, but you don't see me screaming at him every day! (bam!)”. A few seconds of silence and Ella says “if you and daddy die, can I go live with Auntie Anne? THAT would be cool.” I am so glad my point wasn't lost on her. Forget thinking my younger one even heard a word. I think she spent the entire time just staring at the make-up residue that I had yet to wash off from around my eyes, making me look like a rabid raccoon.
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