It looks like I don't need imood to tell what kind of day I'm having.
All is poop, poop is all. That's it.
If I can borrow a theme from sunnflower:
Question: What's more disruptive than your kid coming home from college for the summer?
Answer: A kid with newly removed wisdom teeth parked on the couch in the "family" room that has become your personal fiefdom since the kids went away to college in the first place.
There ya go. It's not that she's being personally unpleasant, particularly. I truly don't mind the "Mommy? Can I have some pudding?" moments. The kitchen is three feet away; it's not a big deal. It's more that her stuff is everywhere: on the coffee table, on the kitchen table, in the bathroom. It's everywhere.
And she's just not taking this well. Even my mother, who whined about every little annoyance, like the wrong amount of water in her cup, was a stoic when it came to pain. This is in the DNA, folks: We. Take. Pain. Not the little mutant on the couch, however, who, I'm sorry to say, does not. I'm not being critical of her so much as I'm saying just as it's not in her make-up to take pain (so I've discovered), it's not in my make-up to give in to it, even when it's someone else's. Curious little conflict we've got going on here.
I called the doctor on her behalf when I got home from work and asked for a couple more vicodin. He wasn't having any of that, no sir. Which is okay with me, and technically okay with her. It's not that she wants to be spaced out so much as she doesn't want to be in any pain at all. Well, no one does, right? Once again, I feel myself holding back from telling her to just get over it. I sound like Mother of the Year, don't I?
Poop.
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I'm watching Ellen
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