Sleep yelling. It’s all the rage, have you heard? God, I hope not, for your sake.

You spawn a spawn and you think, “I like this spawn. I will ensconce this spawn close to me, partly for the spawn to feel secure, and partly for my own lazy convenience.” So you put baby right next to your room, and then it lives to be two-and-a-half and it yells every forty-five minutes for all night long.

There’s a giant penis smoking a cigarette that I intuitively know is Christopher Walken, so I am enjoying the witty exchange we’re having over jellied goat fetuses. Then the yelling starts: “NO! NO! NOOOO!” or “My droopy is wet!” or “THAT’S A JUICY MANGO!”

And she sleeps through it all, except at seven when she wakes up and starts yelling about things that are actually happening, and then you realize that you cannot escape the children, not even in sleep.

My camera battery charger came this weekend, so by the power of Greyskull I can take pictures again.

BUSY BUSY BUSY. At least we’re not sick anymore.

In case you were considering it, I will not be at the Salon of Shame tonight. Companion is sucked into Workport and will not be home til well after bedtime, I imagine. I shall console myself with my home cupping kit and jerri curl cap.

And now I am working on website content writing all day and for the rest of the week. Updates as my mental health requires.

In between Strudel’s very busy schedule of eating my makeup and being her general awesome Strudelness, she has had her first week at school! Ha ha, my chains, they slacken. Did you like how I didn’t mention that at all? I went into my archives and realized I wrote two seperate posts about Frannie’s first day, and that was before she had started, even. But number two kid…this one I forget to feed sometimes. HAW HAW HAW!

Strudel and I were met at school with much applause.

“Hey! Lookit you, SJ! You’re free now!” “Look at that big girl going into the class!” “I remember when she was in a sling!”

And then…the other moms waited, watching. All I saw was the back of her head as she disappeared into the class, which was unsurprising to me.

“That was easy,” one said crossly, as if my freedom was unearned. “Wait til tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said.

Day Two.

“I go by myself?”

“Yep,” I said.

“You come see farm, Mom?”

“No, I can’t come in and see the farm. But your friends will be there.”

“Okay.”

“Wow! There she goes again!” said the moms. The other two-and-a-half year old was screaming and clinging to one of the assistants. “Hmm. Day three is they day they really lose it,” they said sagely.

Day Three.

“Bye, Mom! I see my friends!”

“Bye, honey! Use the potty!”

Silence. I began to wonder how much money was riding on my child’s impending breakdown.

Today, the new four-year-old was screaming and clinging to her father. The other two-and-a-half year old was nowhere to be seen. I got a kiss and a high five. She told the assistant, “I have muffin for snack.”

PHEEEEAR!

I take no credit for this. Between you and me, I actually would have designed a more sensitive child who spends less time trying to turn the cat inside out and throwing sippy cups at my head. But we play the hand we’re dealt.

Because of all the lame events this week, I have been a little discombobulated, but I am excited about settling in and working on all the stuffs I need to do. Now is the time for me to start work on the school’s website. I am hoping to get the basic shell, etc, done by the end of this month.

Also, I cannot stop listening to the newish Atmosphere EP, Sad Clown Bad Summer No. 9. Is so good. Too bad I didn’t pick it up in, you know, summer. But sometimes it’s nice to listen to a summer album in September. They are playing in B-Ham…on the same night as the first school auction meeting. They would probably notice if the chair wasn’t there, I suppose. BOOO!

Strudel reads, with the usual amount of badgering from me. Being read to by Strudel is like a cross between a visit to the DMV and “Groundhog Day.”

Sorry, taking the seat of the potty, the part that’s just a hole, placing it on the ground, and peeing through the potty seat onto the carpet does not actually count. EPIC FAIL.

Although, there were no negative consequences to this for her. I was the one who had to clean up the puddle.

By that logic I think I’m going to cut out a picture of a pina colada from a magazine and lick it until it becomes real. Perhaps someone else will clean up the mess when I go batshit crazy from ink poisoning. And then I will take a piece of chalk and draw a door and write “anywheres” on it.

A couple of nights ago I dreamt I cleaned up a puddle of urine, and then I turned around and there was another, and I couldn’t get her on the potty because I was afraid she would slip in her pee. The puddles were endless.

I am going to go put on my Friday underpants and cry softly.