The Unbearable Likeliness of Pee

We are currently snowed in in the Pacific Northwest.  Seriously snowed in.  Snowed in to the point where the rest of the country, who doesn't normally understand the impact of even a small amount of snow on this area, has absolutely nothing to laugh at any longer.  Snow upon snow upon snow upon ice.  

As luck would have it, I'm cat-sitting for a friend who lives about a mile from me.  When he asked me to do this favor, the leaves were in their all their glorious fall splendor.  The air was slightly warm during the day and crisp at night.  Never did it enter my mind that I would be trekking through a frozen tundra to make sure the kitty was fed and her litter clean.  So, kitty lover and excellent friend that I am, I walked to his condo to keep her world stable.

I started my journey yesterday on a brilliant, sunny, cold late morning.  I was layered up and looking especially awesome in my red hat and sunglasses.  I had Van Morrison playing in my ears, and I was ready to just enjoy the journey.  I quite forgot that the snow upon which I was walking was thinly veiling a sheet of ice, and while my boots were made for walking, they also proved adept at slipping unexpectedly.  One moment I was queen of my world, and the next, I was sprawled on the pavement with, you guessed it, pee in my pants.  Not eager to be the cause of yellow snow, I got up as quickly and awkwardly as possible, brushed myself off, laughed to the sweet elderly couple walking behind me who, incidentally, were incredible snow trekkers, and went limping on my way.  

As my newly wet crotch area began to freeze, I couldn't help but think back wistfully to the times in my life when I didn't pee myself.  I was stunned, upon slow, deliberate pondering, that this was a relatively short window of time.  I was taken back to my time in the juvenile delinquent home at the tender age of 4 and an incident that happened there that is burned on my brain forever. 

Yes, you read that correctly.  I used to live in a juvenile delinquent home.  At the time I didn't realize that my parents were out of work and this was a way to make ends meet.  All I knew is that I got to live in this cool, old house with these older boys who had to stand in the corner if they didn't eat their peas.  I did my fair share of corner standing, too.  It's all good.  I now eat my peas.  Strange that peas came to mind in a post about pee.  Hm.  

I digress.  These boys were hardened youths with any variety of offenses on their records.  I was a 4-year-old who still wet the bed.  Both kinds of kids were equally frustrating for my poor mother.  Worried that she would be burdened with the task of changing my sheets every night until I graduated high school, Mom decided to try an electric sheet.  It was supposed to sound an alarm when it got wet.  I'm not even sure about the safety of this.  Perhaps my mom was secretly hoping it would shock me as punishment.  The woman was desperate.  No peas and random pee is too much for any woman.  

I had no idea what the alarm would sound like.  I just remember being determined not to fall asleep so that I wouldn't set that sheet off.  But sleep comes to all little ones after a day adventuring with juvenile delinquents and their much cooler toys than mine.  The house was quiet.  The kids were all asleep.  I can imagine my parents settling in after an exhausting day raising two little ones and rehabilitating youths.  Suddenly, the night was split into a thousand shards by a buzzing so loud it's still ringing in my ears.  Up shot my parents.  Up shot my brother.  Up shot the house full of delinquents.  And there I sat, in my puddle of surprise, learning a few new words I was told never to use.  But what's a delinquent to do when awakened by the buzz of an electric sheet, thinking it was the siren for the end of the world, but cuss a little?

That was the only night I spent with the sheet.

Back in present day, I wonder:  is my bladder still skittish from the Great Electric Sheet Debacle of 1982?  Is this why I find myself with wet pants more often than not?  If so, I say, "Well done, Mother.  The joke is definitely on me!"  

Men, You Can't Have Everything

I know that title just drips with feminism, but no one should be surprised that I fully identify as a feminist.  Not in a man-hating, eliminate-them-all kind of way, so don't worry.  Things aren't going to get too militant here.  Maybe they will.  I never know when I start writing where things will end up.  You've been here before.  You know I can start talking about men not getting to have everything and might end up besmirching the virtues of dolphins.  That's just how I roll.

Also, there are some things here I need to say that may just reek of sexism and close-mindedness.  Those aren't particularly good qualities, especially in a self-proclaimed feminist.  You're going to have to deal with the inconsistency as best you can.

That said, let's talk about the things that men seem determined to take over.  Lately, there's the man romper.  This is an article of clothing I feel is only correct when placed on babies and women.  Why men are suddenly feeling compelled to put on these one-piece suits is beyond me.  Women already have to sit down when we pee, so stripping from top to bottom in order to do so is not really that much out of the ordinary for us.  Granted, when I'm wearing bottoms separate from my top, I tend to leave my top on when relieving myself.  I know, that's a lot of information, but since my readership is half women, at least 12 people out there are nodding knowingly rather than cringing.  Men, you have the ability to pee standing up without having to drop trou.  Do you understand what a privilege that is?  Why would you want to strip?  Now, I haven't truly investigated the workings of the man romper, but perhaps it comes with a hole like your underwears that allows you the benefit of a cute one-piece without the strip down.  If that's the case, then it's truly unfair that you're claiming this women's garment.  Just let us have it, okay?

Then there's the clip-on man bun.  Really?  I had finally made my peace with just the regular man bun.  I realized that I had to change with the times and just accept it.  In fact, there are some instances I can even find it cute.  However, that is where I draw the line.  Men, if you want to have a man bun, then you need to grow it yourself.  Clip-on hair is for the ladies because some of you practically demand it.  If you don't have enough hair for it, then you don't get to wear it.  I would love to pile my hair in a messy top knot from time to time, but I don't have the length.  Therefore, I wait.  Why do I have such animosity for the clip-on man bun?  I saw a man wearing one the other day.  He was completely bald on top and had one clipped into his remaining hair.  I could see the clip, and the bun was the absolute wrong color.  It was like a hipster mullet, and it wasn't good.  The worst bit, he wasn't wearing it ironically.  He was wearing it as if he looked totally natural.  Men, just leave the clip-ons to the ladies.  Let us have it.

Finally, there's the tank top.  This is what inspired this post in the first place. You get to run around without a shirt on when it's hot or when you think you're hot, and we just have to take it.  Women have to keep covered.  Granted, barely covered for some, but covered, nonetheless.  The tank top is our saving grace during the oppressive summers.  Some of us look fabulous in them.  Some of us look less fabulous.  However, we all have one thing in common when we wear them, earning us the right to be the sole claimants to this fashion trend:  shaved armpits.  At some point, our patriarchal society decided that body hair on women is gross, and we have foolishly acquiesced to the demands that we stay smooth in certain areas.  Therefore, we wear the tank top with what I call responsibility.  When we go into a restaurant, we have no hairs falling from our pits onto the table.  We put on no show of long, curly, unkempt locks with flecks of deodorant stuck to them to put everyone around us off their dinner.  Our culture loves hair as long as it's on the head.  Otherwise, it's gross.  So, men, unless you're prepared to shave your armpits, you can't have tank tops, too.  I'll even compromise:  you can't have tank tops in restaurants or places where people are eating.  You be gentlemen and keep those pit hairs totally unexposed around the food.

There you have it.  My small minded rant.  Spare me the counter-arguments because they will just make me angrier and inspire follow-up posts.   

Foul Mouthed Beasts

I am a staunch cat person.  I know this comes as a surprise to most of you, but it's the truth.  Being a staunch cat person, I have two beautiful beasts of my own.  Sister kitties.  Squirt and Shelby.  Look at them!  

I know, right?  Total perfection!

And being a staunch cat person, I am naturally in possession of two large dogs.  Two more beasts.  As far as looks go, they're quite lovely.  I'm not so blind that I cannot admit that, and if I am going to have dogs, at least they're pleasant to look upon.  Pearl and Mahone.  Check them out:

It's difficult to get a good picture of Mahone because he's a nervous wreck who cannot sit still for a moment.  Also, I'm pretty sure he's terrified of my phone.

Back to my point, which isn't going to be made for quite some time.  These two dogs came to our house pre-trained and practically debarked.  Not exactly debarked because they still possess the ability to bark.  They just don't utilize it very often, which suits me just fine.  I cannot abide the constant yap of dogs.  It grates on my nerves and only serves to remind me that they are in my house.  The piles of dog fur and the stench of dog breath is enough to remind me.  I don't need the noise, too.  But, you know, they're cute and the kids love them.  That's enough for me to wear a Badge of Long Suffering for being so magnanimous, allowing dogs to infiltrate my peaceful cat world.

Stick with me now.  The house next to ours is a rental.  In the 7 years we've lived here, we have had some amazing neighbors and some stinkers.  When we first moved in, we had a family whose father was very charismatic and hilarious and generous to a fault.  If he had a bad week, he'd ring our doorbell and hand us a bottle of wine or a six pack of craft beer and tell us to drink away the bad days for him.  Needless to say, we were sad when they moved.  Then came a family who consisted of a mother with freeloading grown children who would work on cars late into the night and invite their unsavory friends over.  That was when my plants got stolen.  I have no proof, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with them.  Most recently, our favorite neighbors occupied that home for 3 wonderful years.  Oh, they were a delight, and it was such a sad day when they told us they were moving to Scottsdale to, you know, pursue dreams and build careers and all that nonsense.  They left last week, and the house stood empty.

It was empty for a whole day before we got new neighbors.  I can't complain about them too much...yet...but one unpleasant change has moved in with them:  two yippy, yappy mutts with no discernible stopping point.  Thank God they keep the dogs outside, or I might not be experiencing the first signs of frazzled nerves.  Sign one:  taking stock of the animals in my house.  Sign two:  a long, rambling blog.  Our neighbors on the other side of us also have two yippy, yappy mutts, but they stay on top of that noise, lending them a free pass from my nerves.  Plus, we love them.  Love of people can cover a multitude of wretched dog behavior.

Last night, nestled in my favorite chair, preparing for some relaxing Netflix binge-ing (spell check seems to not like any variation I tried of that word), what should accost my ears but the yip-yapping of the new neighbor mutts.  I rolled my eyes and grabbed my earbuds, determined to drown it out with cinematic distractions.  However, I was soon pulled from my reverie by Mahone.  You know, the nervous dog who practically never barks?  He was spinning in circles, whining, and--you guessed it--barking!  He was talking to the enemy.  He never talks to the dogs on the other side.  Like, ever.  Not only was he having some kind of verbal canine fit, but the hairs on his neck and back were standing straight up.  This was completely new and not in a good way.  There was no place in the house he could escape the yaps which meant there was no place in the house I could escape HIS replies.  Mahone's yelps freaked out my kitties, too, and being a staunch cat person, this is unforgivable.  

This left me to wonder:  what in the world were these foul-mouthed beasts saying?  Were they hurling insults?  Were they being vulgar?  Were they promising delicacies that they'd never deliver?  What?  What in the world had my quiet pup in such a tizzy?  All I know is this new development has left me twitchy and more than a little concerned.  After all, I was just getting used to the idea that my plants were safe.  Now I need to move them to the backyard where the dogs will dig them up.  And pee on them.

You see?  This is why I'm a staunch cat person.  Did I even make a point?  No, and I blame my nerves which I blame on Mahone which I blame on the creatures next door which I blame on Scottsdale which I blame on America.  Now I'm not even patriotic.  I've lost everything.  That's my point.

YAP!  

All For What?

The steam hits my skin first, beginning its purging.  I step into the water and close the chamber's curtain, letting the droplets permeate my pores.  I begin the ritual of cleansing away all the choices of the day before.  The food I cooked, the tears I dried, the faces I kissed, the sweat I poured, the spring pollen--though that was an attack and hardly a choice.  All the moments wash away as I scrub with sweet scents, attempting to make fresh what was spoiled.  I breathe deeply as I rinse away both filth and fresh, leaving a new layer of skin ready to take on what the world has to offer. 

Then I begin the self-loathing ritual I cannot seem to quit.  No matter how I hate the process, no matter how unnecessary I believe it to be, I still cannot manage to stand alone, to turn around and stand against a sea of followers, all as miserable and trapped as I.

I pull the purple bottle from the shelf.  It contains the balm that is meant to protect me from the unnatural process set before me.  Its lavender and vanilla odors intended to distract my mind and transport me to another time and place, both enchanted and perfect.  It cannot, however, withstand the sharp edges about to scrape it from my body.  It cannot protect me from the peeling away of something I was created to have, to hold, to embrace as both warmth and shield.  I enjoy the enchanted, perfect place, if only briefly, imagining myself a powerful queen or a Supreme Court Justice, ruling the land fairly, wisely, and benevolently. 

Then comes the harsh pull back to reality and I begin to slide the sharp edges along my limbs.  I groan at the task before me, a task surely not intended for woman but somehow greatly expected.  I seethe with anger, thinking of the time I spend doing what I hate and how, if all the wretched minutes were to be tallied as a whole and returned to me, I would receive days, nay, weeks of my life where I could have saved a squirrel or fed a rhinoceros, or even, dare I dream, learned string theory. 

I inevitably slide over a sensitive patch of skin and draw blood, my very life force.  A small piece of my soul leaks from my veins, its red hue angry against the white surrounding me. Oh, blood, thank you for the life.  Thank you for your long journey through my veins, bringing oxygen and vim and vigor to every corner of my being.  To end your journey so senselessly, so callously is wrong.  In the name of vanity, I lured you from your path and shed you like dog fur.  The inhumanity of it!  For one moment you had purpose, and the next, you were swirling down a drain, never to return, devoid of purpose, released from duty.  

I slide the blades, again and again, hacking, stinging, destroying.  I run my hands along my legs, looking for places that have escaped my murderous hands and remedy the stray patches by killing off the life growing from within my pores.  I pull myself from the black reverie.  I force myself to finish what I started quickly so that I can end, for now, the torture of both body and soul.  For who am I to stand against the pressure?  Who am I to stop the insanity?  Who am I to give rise to a movement to allow myself and millions of others the right to feel both beautiful and natural?  I am nothing other than a soggy, dripping mass of cells, hairless, defeated, and cold. 

I am woman. 

I am razor burned. 

I. Hate. Shaving.  

Immaturity Factor

I fear that the level of maturity in our home has plummeted to a new low.  Yes, I realize that I have three young beautiful beasties who are all expected to embody the term "immature" by virtue of their ages, but I'm not talking about them.  I'm talking about Peter the Great and myself.  

The scene:

We're having a lovely family breakfast, just the 5 of us and two dogs who had just eaten but never seem to be so full that they won't linger on the boundaries and beg with big eyes and perked ears.  And Alice the Wondercat, but she is too dignified to beg.  She just chats incessantly until she gets what she wants.  Brilliant and adorable technique.  

Another creature in my house that talks incessantly is my brilliant, beautiful oldest daughter Wendy.  She has a word quotient of 1.5 million she needs to meet every day, although I'm not quite sure who she reports to on that.  She began talking about 3 minutes after she was born and basically hasn't stopped since.  After 11 years of living with this chatterbox, I've grown accustomed to tuning her at least 75% out since she tends to take a while to make a point.  I'm well aware that many of you reading this are rolling your eyes and thinking something along the lines of "like mother, like daughter."  Well done.  

This morning, Wendy was chatting along like a champion, and I was only about one-quarter of the way through my first cup of coffee which means I had her tuned 98% out.  It wasn't until I heard her say, "And then he kicked him in the balls" that I quickly gave her my full attention.  It's hard to describe just how I felt in that moment.  For one thing, we don't call them "balls" in our house.  It's not for any reason other than I don't think we refer to that particular part of the male anatomy at all, which only added to the shock factor.  It's not my favorite substitute term for the testicles; however, it's adequately descriptive with just enough crassness to make it more than a little unbalancing to hear it come out of the perfect, sweet mouth of my Swedish babe with the blonde hair, giant blue eyes, and sprinkling of freckles across her chirpy little nose. 

I was hit full-force in the face with the fact that my angelic daughter truly is staring puberty right in the mouth and that, while I prefer to think she's still innocent beyond corruption, the world is creeping into her head and her vernacular and probably is way more in than I'd care to admit.  What should have been a moment of mourning for her quickly disappearing childhood followed by a lesson on proper table speak was usurped by the immaturity I mentioned above.  Peter and I looked at each other and dissolved into uncontrollable fits of laughter.  It was just too much to process, and quite frankly, it was hilarious.  The disconnect between her normal, lovable awkwardness and the frankness with which she said "balls" was comedic perfection.  

Like I said before, we don't use the term "balls," so my other two, still slightly more innocent and/or clueless, didn't understand what Wendy had said or why their parents had turned into hyenas over breakfast.  I still don't know what the story was leading up to one kid taking a really low, cheap shot at another kid, but Titus, my baby, my sweet, sweet son was giving his oldest sister his utmost attention.  After giving Peter and me a sideways, confused glance, he wanted to get back to the story because he needed clarification on one very important point.  He asked Wendy, "Were they squishy balls or hard balls?"

Well, that did us in.  We declared breakfast over and sent our confused children on their way.  I know every moment of growing up isn't going to be this fun, but I will draw on this memory for a while whenever I need a little giggle.  Balls, balls, balls!  

Unleash the Beasts (That is, Keep Them Inside!)

This could be one of my most controversial posts ever.  So, if you're not here to have your preconceived notions challenged or to have your blood boil in anger, then I suggest you don't read this one.  I'm going to get real, and I'm going to get, um, even more real.  I've been in bed sick for 5 days, and I've had nothing but time to think and stew and get irrationally angry.  I'm not allowing for debate on this post because what I'm about to say is hard factpinion.  That's when you form an opinion so staunchly that you believe it to be fact even if it's unprovable.  That said, let's get to the nitty gritty:

Designer dogs suck.  I have had it with them, and they are officially on my list of Animals People Inexplicably Adore That I Do Not.  Also on that list are dolphins and, well, just dolphins, but with the addition of "designer dogs," I got to make the title of the list plural. Their offenses are many, not the least of which is the fact that they are the size of a cat without any of the charm of a cat.  What's the point? 

Now, as an admitted cat person, you may simply receive my factpinion with a dismissive, "Oh, she's just a cat person.  What does she know?"  However, the fact that I have not one, but two large dogs in my house that I allow to eat, live, and even interact with kindly on a daily basis gives  me every right to assert what I asserted above:  the designer series of the canine class absolutely, undoubtedly sucks.  

Before we moved to the Suburb on the Hill, we lived in the 'hood.  Yes, the 'hood.  Now, in the 'hood, people do have dogs, but their dogs serve almost one singular purpose:  protect the stuff.  People did not walk their dogs, nor did they have to, because their dogs expended all their energy running around their yards, barking like hooligans, growling like hell hounds, protecting the stuff.  It wasn't without merit, either.  Our particular pocket of the 'hood was pretty unsafe with people forcefully taking other people's stuff and lives and things like that. 

Incidentally, I never felt particularly unsafe there.  We lived on the corner of Random Side Street and Getaway Road.  Random Side Street was short, and we knew our neighbors.  There was chatty Colin whose worst behaviors involved talking way too much, unable to read body cues from the mommy trying to get into the house where her baby was, and trimming our trees without permission in order to curry favor with the hubs who would then feel obligated to pay him back.  Annoying?  Sure.  But harmless.  Then there was Stock Car Reuben who traveled the country 10 months out of the year and only returned to Random Side Street to check in on his folks.  Great guy.  Never a nuisance.  And there were the Russians who spent years building a massive house that stuck out in the 'hood like a sore thumb and would have, if they could have sold it, attracted the people who wanted to take the stuff from the owners because it looked like the kind of house that would have good stuff.  In that case, I would have advised them to get one of the big dogs that the other people have.  Getaway Road was the busy street that led you out of where you had done stuff, so no one was going to stop to check if the tiny yellow house with the big yard and no scary dog had any good stuff.  They were just getting away.  

Then we moved to the Suburb on the Hill.  As I've said before, I find it idyllic.  Living in a pre-planned, cookie cutter neighborhood suits me just fine for this stage in our lives.  Sidewalks as far as the eye can see.  Safe, lovely sidewalks for the kids to walk to school, ride their bikes, color with chalk, set up lemonade stands, twirl around sparklers...you get the idea.  The sidewalks were what really sold the area to me, and in my golden haze of dreaming of a quieter life, kids connected to other kids by miles of concrete safety, I failed to notice what else comes with the suburbs and the sidewalks.  That would be, and I know you were wondering if I'd circle back around, the aforementioned sucky designer dogs.  

People walk around with these beasts, using them as status symbols.  Just like a cup of coffee from McDonald's is better than Starbucks any day (holy cow, BONUS controversial factpinion), people will drink less delicious coffee for the privilege of carrying around that white and green cup at chest level so everyone can see.  It turns red in mid-August to celebrate Christmas.  So, just as people drink bad coffee in order to look good, so they buy bad dogs in order to be celebrated by people they do not know and to terrorize their good neighbors who share this community with them.  

You see, designer dogs have had their sphincter muscle strength bred out of them (there is no research to back this up; it's just a natural assumption of mine).  They also have ridiculously short legs which cause them to lag far behind their owners when taken out for their daily showing, aka, walk.  Their owners are only interested in being seen, mind you, so they pay not one bit of attention to the beast they are dragging behind them.  And the beast, with its weak anus, is pooping all over the sidewalk.  Just dropping those mini bombs like a clown throwing Tootsie Rolls at a parade.  The owner either does not know because they're busy being seen, or they do not care because the dog is for status and nothing lowers your status like picking up poop and carrying it around in a plastic bag.  

As you can imagine, this turns the sidewalks into veritable Mine Fields of Feces, and it forces you to call out to your kids, trying not to get smashed by cars by staying on the sidewalks, "Watch out for dog poop!"  Really?  This is something you should never have to yell to anyone on a sidewalk because a sidewalk is no place for poop.  

You may be tempted to say, "Natalie, it's not the dogs that suck.  It's the owners that suck."  That's not true.  I'm very comfortable lumping all the designer dogs into one category, but there are responsible small dog owners in this world who don't deserve the same treatment.  You know the ones.  The ones who don't put them in ridiculous outfits.  The ones who don't bring them into stores.  The ones who are willing to lower their status by picking up the poop.  I respect that.  However, it doesn't erase the fact that designer dogs' mere existence will attract the status-seeking bad dog owner every single time, and that, my friends, is why they universally suck.  Give me a pit bull any day who has a strong fudge hole, but for heaven's sake, pick up after it.  Otherwise, I will be forced to rethink my stance on all of this.  

It's Not ALL Precious

I'm pretty sure this particular blog has been done to death, but I don't really care.  "Frozen" parodies and lip syncing videos have been done to death, but people seem to like those.  This is my lip syncing blog.  

*side note:  I find it very disturbing that a lot of videos are being done in cars.  If I ever get hit by someone doing a lip syncing video while driving, I will not be happy.  At all.  I will probably bite them.  Hard.  

As I scroll through my Facebook news feed, I get inundated with trite quotes, trying to be deep but really intending to inflict as much guilt upon the reader as possible, telling me to embrace every moment of my children's every living second because I'll never get it back.  Time is precious, therefore, everything my kid does is precious, and if I'm not living in the moment, I'm wasting precious time.  Like, right now, I'm wasting precious time by not being upstairs with my children in their overheated room at my parents' house that smells like farts, chlorine, and something unidentifiable but definitely dead, drinking in the precious moments of them fighting with their cousins over who gets to play Minecraft next.  Is that one word or two?  I don't know.  

The problem I have with those saccharine quotes, often superimposed over a nice picture of a child or a flower or a yak, is that I happen to be an introvert who lives in the real world.  Why should that matter, you ask?  Well, as an introvert, I get drained by being around too many people too often.  Just completely worn out, and this is around people I enjoy immensely in small doses.  The problem with kids is that they happen to be people.  Some days (okay, at different points every.single.day), they happen to be people with whom I would not choose to associate if I wasn't bound by law to do so.  They have personalities that often I enjoy, but then I often don't enjoy them either.  It's those times where I'm not enjoying them that I get annoyed with the idea that I am meant to savor everything they do as  a precious moment.  I just want them to go away, or, better yet, I want to go away.  Finding the energy to hover over my children like a helicopter, enjoying everything they do all the time even when I'm not enjoying what they're doing, is not reality.  So, to those who create those quotes on those pretty pictures, I have to say it:  suck it.  You either don't have kids, or you are living in a fantasy world where your child is the constant center, all other relationships are completely ignored, and you're inwardly dying a slow, precious death.  Congratulations to you, and I have pills if you need them.  

So, now, for your entertainment and possible harsh judgement, I will share with you some (just a handful; barely a sampling) times when I did not find my inner Fantasy Super Mom (mainly because she doesn't exist) and think my children utterly precious:  

• Pregnancy, when all my internal organs were squashed to fit an MRE package and I became a woman capable of producing enough methane to heat entire Scandinavian towns in the dead of winter.  
• Childbirth, when I was laid out on a cold operating table, nekkid and my no-no special places freshly shaved by a male nurse.  
• Having a newborn pee in my mouth.  
• Getting covered in poop too many times to count.  
• Having my child cover herself from head to toe in Vaseline.  You know what should work to get that out?  Dawn.  They use it on the oil spill animals.  Guess what doesn't work on a Vaseline-covered child?  Dawn.  Great for penguins.  Lousy for children.  
• Retrieving shoes off the roof.
• Finding my iced tea maker has been turned into a cooking pot for every cereal and cracker in the pantry.
• Finding my son in the front yard with nothing on but a smile, running through the sprinkler, because he couldn't take the 2 minutes to look for his swimsuit which he swore he couldn't find even though it was in the place where it's always kept and where he has found it every other time.  
• The endless bad jokes.  I can't even fake laugh anymore.  Really, I'm doing them a favor.  Kids have got to learn that not everything they do is a winning effort deserving praise and adoration.  "Knock knock."  "Who's there?"  "Cow."  "Cow who?"  "I love chicken."  Seriously.  Not precious.  Or funny.  
• Tantrums.  All of them. 
• The endless barrage of tattle tales.  
• Homework.  Why do they even give out homework to first graders?  I did my time.  I graduated.  I find it supremely un-precious having to sit and go through school all over again.
• The daily Cooking of the Amazing Dinner and the daily "I Don't Like That" followed by the daily "You're Gonna Eat It or You're Gonna Starve" routine.  I am not a short order cook any more than I am a tropical fairy queen.  
• Laundry.  

Finding the energy to be completely plugged into my children every second of every day on top of trying to maintain some small part of the Person I Was Before I Became a Parent on top of keeping my house clean while little people follow me and destroy my handiwork on top of feeling guilty for not having my children signed up for sports, activities, cooking classes, and dog training courses (because all of that means more people), is impossible.  This does not mean I don't adore my kids.  This does not mean I don't find plenty of precious moments to enjoy each day.  It just means that I cannot center my world around my kids because, like I said, they're people.  People, in large doses, suck my soul dry, and knowing that it's okay to not find everything they do wonderful means that the special moments remain special, the tough moments become learning opportunities for all of us, and the balance between the two means I'm still a human raising humans to be humans that other humans want to be around.  

And just in case my cynicism is leaving a bad taste in your mouth, I will leave you with this piece of optimism.  

I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that every day, I will, without fail, find one thing very, very precious that I will enjoy immensely no matter what has happened during the day:

Bedtime.