Pooping Butterflies.

That stupid t-shirt: “Some days I wake up grumpy, some days I let her sleep” keeps running through my head. I think it’s because I didn’t let grumpy sleep. Grumpy doesn’t get to sleep. Grumpy must remain in a perpetual state of sleepless-induced grumpiness until, a) all of the children go somewhere for the weekend, or b) they grow up and go to college.

Don’t mind me. I may have been pooping butterflies last week and all with hubby away, but this week I’m just pissed. Even the Coronas at the park while the kids climbed a very tall tree and a cop kept walking by didn’t alleviate it. And when I said, “Screw it” to trying to be miss happy homemaker and went for frozen mac-n-cheese (Miss 6) and granola (me) for dinner (it’s organic!) I felt worse. Tonight I opted for ravioli. The fresh out of the bag variety. Mmm. Mmm. Good.

Beanie ain’t happy. And if Beanie ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. She’s still the sweetest little bundle, but even bundles grow teeth. And teeth-making makes for a crabby, red-rashed little Bean. That particular Bean variety doesn’t seem to sleep or do much besides grow more rash. It’s giving me one too. In my brain.

The best news I have is that the training started for real today. After not running for a year and a half, I hit the trail and ran four miles. Yee-ha.

And besides that and the fact that Bubble Girl appears to have sprouted wings and is now flying around on her happiness cloud, my only other stuff involves the family vault. Dare I? I think I do…

First, the MIL keeps calling about a family member’s wedding. The hubby finally called her back to remind her that we are the ONLY ones in the hubby’s immediate family that must fly to said wedding AND we are the ONLY ones with an infant. If we flew to the wedding (it takes a full 12-hour day), we would then have to drive eight hours south (with the infant and Miss 6) to complete our visit. I don’t know about you, but that is one particular brand of torture I aim to opt out of. While it would be great to see the fam at the big event, we do have an infant…remember? So amid increasing pressure to bring the infant east for the big meet-n-greet, we are opting out of adding additional torture to the process. Fun times. (The MIL is disappointed, but now understands. She just needed a little memory jog. ☺)

Then there’s my mom. Happily married for over 20 years and thinking she’s in the home stretch. When all of a sudden, my step-dad buys a Harley. And appears to be riding off into the sunset — alone. I’m not sure where Poppy has gone. He’s there, but not. I think aliens came and replaced his brain. Or he’s been out in the southern sun too long…

AND what would life be without the ATF? Two agents knocked on my 86-year-old grandmother’s door last week. “Hello. We are with the ATF.” “What does ATF stand for?” “Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.” “Well, I don’t smoke any more, but I do take an occasional drink.” “We aren’t here for you.” They were, however, there for my father. The one who died almost three years ago. He had apparently been in possession of a Claymore Mine at some point. They wanted to make sure it had been properly disposed of and that my grandmother wasn’t using it as a doorstop. (She wasn’t.)

And that last tidbit is simply a stand-alone-think-it-through-for-yourself glimpse into my family. I am so lucky that I have them to keep me from slipping away into the family-with-two-kids-a-dog-and-a-cat-suburban-doldrums…

Now grumpy is going to bed. You’d better not wake me up, hear?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Cupid’s Chokehold/Breakfast in America. Gym Class Heroes. She’s got her very own ringtone. If that ain’t love, I don’t know what love is.