Today my loving family went out en masse to get me Christmas gifts. It was so unpleasant. Jesse’s still grumpy from being sick all week, and Nick was whiny, and now Anthony’s sick so he’s going to be grumpy for a couple days and speak to me in monosyllabic grunts between weak coughs and gross-sounding snuffles.
(Don’t tell him I just said that. Recipe for some maximum grumpy.)
(Anthony, if you’re reading this: I love you anyway. You rock my world. Even when you’re grumpy.)
It took at least a half hour of random whining and noise making for Anthony to get the kids out of the house, and there was much debate and emotion about iPads and what I want and socks and allowance money. I had to help, which turned the whole “yay gifts for mommy!” ju ju into “this sucks and I don’t want any Christmas gifts from you annoying maniacs because it’s starting to feel like another miserable CHORE just like doing laundry and wiping your tiny asses after you poop” ju ju.
But they finally left, my miserable sick husband and his irritating spawn, and I was happy to be alone. Doing intellectually enriching chores. My peeps eventually returned and announced I wasn’t allowed in the basement for a while, la la la, except I had to answer several questions about where the wrapping paper was stashed, and Nick came up the stairs pushing the giant Pilates ball in front of him to get a pen to write with, and he refused to take the ball back to the basement even though I had just cleaned a bunch of his crap out of the living room.
Oh well. Eventually a collection of wrapped packages were carried proudly to the Christmas tree, and my home was populated with much more cheerful people than before.
I’m still shell-shocked by the morning antics, so I haven’t inspected any packages. I’ll give them a good shake tomorrow. Just five more days until I get to open them! I wonder what an economist, a five-year-old boy, and a nine-year-old girl will come up with?