Don’t tell my children this. But. There are times. When I wish (shhhh). That I hadn’t had any kids (quiet, I tell you).

Let me clarify.

Just now, case in point, I just sat down to write and the Child of Five asked me for Honeynut Cheerios. When I went into the kitchen to get them for him, I noticed the dishwasher, full of dishes that I did not use, had completed its cycle. I had loaded said dishwasher with those same used-by-others dishes earlier in the day. I had also wiped someone else’s greasy handprints off the kitchen cabinets, scrubbed someone else’s messes off the countertops, and scoured pots and pans used to cook someone else’s food. I thought it not unreasonable for me to ask the Twin Teenage Terrors to empty the dishwasher of the dishes THEY used. Yet, when I did just that, I got all sorts of arguments to the contrary until it didn’t seem worth arguing about so I declared it still too hot to empty and am now playing Scarlett I’ll-think-about-that-later O’Fucking’Hara.

The Nelsons we are not. Of course, The Nelsons were not the Nelsons, singing about garden parties on television while snorting cocaine and dying in plane crashes when the camera wasn’t rolling. But I digress.

These childfree-longings are fleeting and I’d have a million nervous breakdowns if something happened to any of my offspring. BUT. At times, I am so fucking bored with my domesticity. Yes, people think I’m all better-than-THE-Pioneer-Woman because I raise sheep and chickens AND spin wool and knit sweaters and make cheese and craft art glass. For the most part, however, these are all solitary tasks. I grew up alone. I am comfortable alone. I am also a wild child who needs to get out and get her social/drink on or she gets really grumpy but that’s another tale for another day.

Just so you know, I’ve been interrupted seven, make that eight, times since I started writing this. I’m on the sixth paragraph, one of which is a motherfucking sentence. Yes, I have been cussing more than usual. Don’t ask me why, go ask your brother.

See? Dr. Seuss is co-opting my blog. All. Because. I. Had. Children.

Lately, I’ve been reading fashion blogs, Tom and Lorenzo most of all. Because they are awesome and opinionated, full of biting humor but heart as well. And the clothes! God I’d love to wear those clothes. Where? I have no idea. You see, I have kids. Kids cost a lot of time and money. Unless one is very in-the-green, kids negate the purchase of high fashion and the time to be seen in said fashion.

Where am I going with this? I don’t fucking know. My mood demanded thoughts to paper and, apparently, and as much as I declare to the contrary, I do what is demanded of me. Within reason. Don’t worry, the laundry room floor is still hidden by piles of dirty clothes. THAT ARE NOT MINE!

Let it be known I was interrupted a total of 16 times while trying to write this short and mostly pointless mess. That is all.