A Post In Which I Talk A Lot About Booze

As some of you know, a few days ago, I had a crisis during which I began feeling suffocated by my own damn blog. However, as Janet of Three and Holding so wisely put it, "A blog shouldn't pressure you to write. It's wrong and proves that you are in a dysfunctional relationship."

Janet is the Blog Whisperer!

So, the blog and I spent some time apart and later did a bit of couples counseling over at the Jesuit Retreat House. The bottom line is that the blog has some attachment issues, while I need to stop trying to be everything to everyone, but we are going to pull through. (Oh, and it’s OK to post rubbish every now and again. Which really takes a load off for me, dear readers, because rubbish is what I be postin’ today!)

And now, onto the rubbish . . .

I feel like such a heel for even saying this because it’s not as if I am a single mother doing it alone (How DO you do it? A round of drinks for all the single mothers, please. Put it on my tab. What? Fine, I'll stay late and wash dishes, whatever). My husband is not off fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan or anything like that, but lately he’s been working all the dang time – weekdays, weekends, nights, you name it.

And all the squirrels are making googly eyes at me because I am going nuts.

IT IS NOT HEALTHY TO GO THROUGH LIFE DRAGGING A TODDLER ALONG BY YOUR PANT LEG WHILE ANOTHER ONE IS HANGING LIKE A MONKEY OFF YOUR BACK.

At some point, it becomes necessary to disengage. And that is not always possible when you are the sole adult in charge.

What I have done instead is to:

• Permanently remove the cushions from my couches, creating an Insta Indoor Playground:

• Spend indecent amounts of time in the kids’ section of the local bookstore, sipping caramel latte mocha cappuccino swirls hold the whipped cream please while the little J-dog and V-meister play happily around that saviour of frazzled mothers everywhere, the Thomas the Tank Engine Train Table:

I Can't Believe She Let Me Leave the House Like This

• Ask my mother-in-law to watch the kids for a few hours tomorrow morning so I could (mwaa ha ha ha!) . . .go to church!

Never in my life have I been looking forward to a date with Jesus (here on earth, that is) as much as I am today.

And never have I been more tempted to go to the corner bar instead. Because, in the grand scheme of things, how bad is using your collection plate money to buy a flaming Dr. Pepper shot, anyway?

I will survive!

But I will never tell whether I actually went to church or to O’Reilly’s tavern.