Fatigue

Fatigue...such a fancy way of saying "tired." It implies a chronic disposition, which suites my state of mind perfectly.

Fatigue

Also has the word "fat" in it...a state I embrace as well. Butter, heavy cream, chocolate, pizza...the list is endless. I did enter a mild form of depression when I noted that a majority of my daily diet was on Lindsey's list of foods to help you gain weight provided by her dietitian at St. Jude.

Whatever.

The point is I'm fatigued.

My little boy fatigues me.

If something isn't crashing down and our home is in a rare state of peace and quiet... it's probably because he's squeezed a tube of toothpaste onto the bathroom counter and is proceeding to finger paint the mirror. The mirror, which crashed to the grounds as I typed this post.

Caught, red handed. Crest sparkling bubble flavored body paint. And right after a bath.

That's coming out of your Christmas present budget boy.

A budget which is now at minus $347.63 after a fit a few weeks ago resulted in staples to the back of the head.

To add to the ever growing state of fatigue...boys are gross. Having worked at St Jude in their sterile, immunosupressed environment, I was trained to change diapers with gloves on. Shannon's a clean child. Adam, another story.

why do these pics never get old?

A dirty story.

I would like to think I've mellowed a bit, but that's up for debate. But, in essence that is why we have child, right. To push us. To help us become people we never thought we could be. In my case, someone who can accept nastiness, messiness, and generalized chaos...as long as itcomes in a cute package.

Case in point. These jammies. Thankfully the Holy Ghost whispered to me in Gymboree 13 months ago..."buy every size"; resulting in Adam's 3 pairs of "scary bones" skeleton pj's that he lives in day in and day out. Shamelessly we picked Shannon up from art club with Adam in his pj's and a swiffer duster in hand aka his sword. It's a tug of war every morning to get him dressed and his precious pj's in the washer. His list of "essential items" to be able to go to bed is growing at warps speed and I can barely keep up with his OCD.

Aside from his hygiene, there's my house. Words cannot express the joy I feel when my house is clean.

It's nirvana.

The Lord also knows this, and this is why he sent me Adam. All I did was attempt to change clothes after church. Attempt to keep one outfit clean and clear from his grubby paws. My 3 minutes of alone time were punished...

Didn't change fast enough...the starving boy had to fend for himself. Mama's never been quick enough. Reminds me of when he started eating rice cereal as in infant. He required 2 spoons...one to shovel the paste into his mouth while the other scooped up more glop.

When told to clean it up, it went more like this... some for you...
some for me. This cereal is now labeled, "Adam's chow - eat at your own risk" No one has touched it to date.I won't mention the recent snot bubbly while shopping in Kohl's that he popped himself. I won't mention how he stuck his head in the toilet yesterday. Or how he eats the fake toast at the YMCA child watch. I won't mention them, because they make me gag, but must be noted for posterity's sake.

This post was created partially to post disgusting pics of my boy that reveal his true nature.

Partially to vent my mounting frustrations at raising a male.

But mostly the pics.