My biggest failure in life seems to be that I am not very obsessed with myself. In a world where everyone is selling everything and trying to make a buck, I can’t seem to get there because I just don’t think I’m that special. Not in a wah wah way, but in a real way that simply means I’m pretty sure somebody else is doing what I am doing way better. They have funnier and better blogs. They have better kids, a better husband, they cook better, they laugh better, they look better, they do stuff better. So who am I do elbow my way into your life and try to get your attention? There’s so much noise out there, I don’t always have the energy to be part of it. When I long for quiet, and I turn off the world for a bit, I’m sometimes shocked to find that others are still listening to the racket, and not demanding for everyone to be just sit the fuck down and be quiet. Then I mope that my need for quiet has pushed me to the back of the line and everyone else is still doing things better, and so my cyclical inner turmoil thrives.

There’s too much pressure when I try to get attention. So in the spirit of releasing some pressure, here’s a rundown of the last few weeks, instead of an insightful blog post, which you can find at renegademama, who is basically my blogging idol.

Currently, as I type, my cat is fucking digging and kneading his claws into me in some cat attempt to get some affection. I am still confused as to why we have a cat. Aside from the fact that the domestic cat is NOT my totem animal, I am allergic to the whole feline species. We got him on a whim, and we’re stuck with him. We have to lock him in the bathroom at the night because he was grooming my husband’s head so viciously that a)it was gross and b)he wouldn’t stop. He would walk the length of our bed’s head board like a convicted sailor walking the plank and pounce into a fully reclined position as if to trick us into thinking he’d been there the whole time. You know, that was even kind of funny. But then he would get his grooming on, and would lick my husbands forehead and hair for the duration of the night. WTF? So now Jimmy sleeps in the bathroom. Which means he seeks affection during daytime hours, which I am fine with, and try to appease him, but right when it’s time to quit, he gets his claws out and starts threatening me with them. I don’t get cats.

My son has aced his 1 year old manipulation practicum and has me tending to him every 2 hours or so nightly. In typical mother fashion, let me take full responsibility and say ‘it’s all my fault’ since I’m the one tending to him, but he’s got me between a rock and hard place. Right when we had positioned ourselves into a reasonable sleep routine (8pm-5am) he went and started to teethe, to get a cold and there I was tending tending tending and undoing all the good habits we had created over for the summer. Then it gets to the point that I am just so bloody tired that it’s easier to just go in and put him back to sleep with a mouthful of boob rather than lie in bed and wait for him to stop crying. I’m tending to him for selfish reasons, but also because I want to be able to function during the day. Bad mum. Bad. But this Friday I am passing the torch and relieving myself from nighttime parenting duty. After more than 400 nights of keeping the watch, I am bestowing the honour onto Dad, who will likely have to tend for about 5 nights before Baby decides the new guy just aint’ worth getting up and crying for.

I cleaned out my fridge. In fact, the reason I have the energy to sit and write all this is because I was so awesomely pleased when the container that had suction cupped itself closed until I banged it on the counter and ran it under hot water, then cold water, then pried it open with a knife – turned out to be old coleslaw instead of what I thought it was, which was old tuna, I couldn’t believe my luck. Hot Dang! I chirped and my daughter gave me a look that could have been from the smell, but was most likely because she thinks I’m an idiot. If she had bothered to ask me, I would have explained that after having thrown out things like liquified cucumber, rock hard and brown lemon (lime?), 4 jars of salsa growing mould babies, pasta that had blended into itself to become one large chunk of gooey spaghetti rather than individual strands, she would have learned that the smell of old cabbage is much less assaulting than what I had prepared myself for. When it comes to Taking One For The Team, cleaning out the fridge is about as jihadist as I get.

Oh my god, are we still writing this blog post? Lets stop here before I get a cramp. My arm is itchy from my cat’s kneading and I need a cup of tea. Go do something with somebody who is doing that something better than me.