The television is on right now. Again. Still. In fact, the television is on way more than I'd like to admit lately. I am tired - beyond tired. I am exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally. If I can manage to drag my butt out of bed in the morning, I call it a success. If I can manage to get the kid breakfast and juice, woo-hoo! And if I can manage to choke down some cereal to prevent the Return of the Nausea, it's time to party. And by party, I mean sleep. But, since I have a three-year-old tornado-boy, I can't sleep. So, I turn on the television and vegetate in the chair, trying to figure out things like "Is Sir Toppam Hat's first name Toppam? If so, why does one of the characters call him Bertram from time to time? And either way, who the hell named their kid Toppam? Or Bertram? And why doesn't Lady Hat have a first name? The dude gets two first names, but his wife doesn't even warrant one?" And so on. Because I have seen entirely too much Thomas the Tank Engine recently.
At some point, I have to pause in my pondering of children's tv shows because Miles craps his pants, and I have to clean him up, and clean out his underwear, and reassure him that I don't hate him. The kid has this complex that if I tell him 'poop goes in the toilet', he hears, "You pooped your pants, so I will never love you again." So, I gag as I clean up poop, and then I cuddle a sobbing toddler for half an hour until he figures out we're okay.
Eventually, he decides he's bored of sad, and pushes himself out of my lap - using every elbow, knee, and other pointy bit he has. As a side note? This kid seems to have twice as many angles as other kids. And they always end up in my gut. Repeatedly. Sigh.
Lunchtime always comes, somehow, and I fight the battle of "What will you eat today?" The conversation goes something like this:
Me: Do you want soup?
Miles: No. No soup.
Me: Rice?
Miles: No rice.
Me: Chicken nuggets?
Miles: No chicken chunks. [He insists on calling them chicken chunks, which makes me think of puke, every time. Gross.]
Me: Pancakes?
Miles: No.
[Repeat, ad nauseum]
Me: What do you want to eat?
Miles: Ummmm. . . SOUP!
So, I make him soup, and he eats two bites and declares it 'Yucky' and decides he wants fruit snacks for lunch. Cue tantrums, as I try to convince him to eat the soup first. Repeat. Meanwhile, I'm looking for toothpicks to prop my eyes open. . .
Then, comes my favorite time of day: Naptime. Through LOOOOOOONG months of arguing, fussing, yelling, sobbing, fighting, screaming, and general horribleness, Miles now lays down quietly, asks for a song (or more often "No sing, Mommy. No sing."), and I tuck him in and go to bed myself. The only complaint I have is that naptime is never long enough. As soon as I shut my eyes, Miles is bouncing on the bed, full of energy to start again.
I drag myself out of bed again, and we go straight to the television again, so I can continue pondering the intricacies of the Island of Sodor, and try to wake my brain enough to function.
All I can say is: Thank God for Netflix. Sigh.
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