I’ve been trying to cut back on my alcohol abuse lately now that we’re poor. I’ve even downgraded from the “good” boxed wine to the fucking Franzia. At first I was pretty devastated, and started problem-solving this like some nerd mathematician, trying to apply Einstein’s theory of relativity so that I can manipulate me and the wine through space and time every 10 minutes and abuse the same substances repeatedly at the rate that I really feel like I should be able to every now and then, every night…
But you know, children are very spiritual beings. They are very in-tune to what is going on around them. Last night, out of nowhere, my little girls began to pick up on their desparate mother’s needs. I think you could say they “became filled with the Spirit.” After consuming just one glass of cheap red wine, the children saw, in all its glory, the ugly look of sobriety on my face. They began speaking in strange tongues, which was followed by an uncanny chain of events that was startlingly similar to being… not sober, the events themselves only perpetuating the sensation.
First, this crackjob who clearly cuts her own bangs starts telling me about her preparations for “when the shit hits the fan” (in the apocalyptic sense of the term) and how she’s going to shoot her gang of cats in their brainstems because she won’t be able to take them with her… (where?? you ask?) to Mexico, because that makes a lot of fucking sense. I think the girls were trying to show me with this that I’m NOT the craziest person in their lives… which relieves the guilt a little, honestly.
On top of that, I think they were also trying to reassure me in their childlike innocence that they’ve got enough sense to jump on an arctic polar bear and get the fuck to Canada or France or somewhere else where people are too wussy to kill each other. My girls are gonna go all “Hanna” on that bitch muthafuggaaaaaaaaas. Which really does warm this little mother’s heart, in this day and age. Sweet children.
Then, they each took turns waking up about every hour and a half throughout the entire night. By 6 a.m. when I was just about to get a big sexy I-don’t-know, something awesome from Nicki Minaj in my dream, my 3-year-old comes into my bedroom and is all “Mommy I have to pee” in her high-pitched voice, and then can’t find her penguin game, and then wants to eat a cookie, and then needs her blankey tucked under the covers because it needs to sleep, and then is sweet enough to tell me that her baby sister is awake because seemingly I can’t hear the baby crying………. myself.
I stand up out of bed, and I am not lying to you when I say that this exact song and this exact set of imagery is all that is going through my head.
I know! I’m glad you’re not me too. It was like an awful carnival without the delightful little midgets. I was dizzy. So…. do you think my children think their mom is a stupid ho? Because that is the demon shit they planted in my head. I almost just left them in my bed and took a cold shower to snap myself back into some illusion of normalcy. Or at least to wash the slutty off of me. Then I bent down to pick up the baby, and she gave me this big toothless grin that says, “I love you, but I fucking OWN you.”
I finally got two cups of coffee down, which is what it takes for me to achieve enough denial to at least feel like I can handle life.
All of this is to say, little baby Texas Fetus, that you need to pull your weight around the house and, when times are tough and you know your mama needs more happy juice than is societally acceptable, call down your little spirit angels to help her get through it, and also make sure she doesn’t murder your daddy, because she’s going to want to do that.
In fetus’ name, Amen.
This is dedicated to my best buddy and his wife in Texas, who are expecting their first baby, and who will never sleep soundly at night again (at least until the kid moves out of the house), but who will know a deeper love than they ever imagined.