I'm Taking my Burnt Muffins And Going home.

 

Frig and Darnit, I'm already at home.

And I'm not allowed to leave. Even though the fancy baby-sitters in the city do.

And I was working so hard to be awesome today.

I pureed those frozen bananas before you even had coffee. I followed the instructions and baked those beasties at 400 for twenty minutes, so its not my fault that they're burnt and that I forgot to add sugar. At least three toddlers came into my personal morning space screeching and screaming. They would have been hurling obscenities if they had any. They don't deserve the sweet banana muffins anyway. They'll be grateful for the burnt banana pucks, by golly, after what I've had to listen to already this morning.

Well, thank goodness for small blessings. I'm so glad that Daniel Cook isn't in my "Home Child Happiness Location". (I can't say "Daycare" because then people will write articles about me, and talk about "stranger care", and generally criticize me for what I do. Even though they would suck at it too).

If I had to look at Daniel Cook's smart ass/ ever happy / I know all that shtuff face every day, I'd definitely get in touch with my aggressive side. Passive aggression would move over to usher in full fledged, your face annoys me, you're way too smart and its threatening, but in a super weird way, unmasked aggression.

I'd say super inappropriate things like: Your hair is too red. Your face is too..... Eager. You know too much stuff.

Comparatively speaking, I'm grateful I have weird little kids who are weird in all the normal ways- like screaming, sucking on all the toys and bashing one another with tractors. And/or peeing in the little potty because it looks like way more fun than using the standard toilet, even though they look like they're pushing fourteen, and they've known how to use a legit toilet for as long as I've been addicted to toast. And that's a long time.

Weird like crawling underneath the table and getting wedged against a wall and then crying helplessly about being trapped. Or, say- dump out all the toys and use the bins as hats. And then throw the hats in the air and cry when they step on a dinky toy. Is that what people still call them? Dinky toys? Really? Sounds really inappropriate. It's probably only dangerous Love Kids From The Privacy Of Your Own Terrifyingly Unsafe Home people like me who use outdated terminology like that. It's entirely in line with my desire to trick all the parents who trust me with their kids by actually stocking things like dinky toys in my basement, thereby ruining their offspring's chances of ever moving beyond gas pumping at the local Co-op.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Playing with dinky toys or pumping gas.

Some days, it's pretty much my highest goal- to share the dinky cars without bloodshed, and to keep the kids intact so that they will retain their limbs long enough to squeeze the fuel trigger.

I've got to go. Someone is wiping their nose on a care bear.

 

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