Wednesday, Jun. 21, 2017 - 2:17 p.m.

Jesus Christ. I keep thinking I will come here to blow off steam about my kids, but shit happens more quickly than I can do that.

Making popsicles. I can't just go in there and make some fucking popsicles of my choice and give them to my grateful children. I have to be assisted in my 10 square foot kitchen by both U and E, who both stand squarely in front of my 2 foot wide prep area. They insist on putting things in microwave, pushing all buttons, chipping things and sticking their heads in my way when I am trying to fill the popsicle molds. Then I wants to use the handle on the Zola to take his popsicle out, except he isn't quite strong enough to do it so asks for help so when I help him he freaks out and wants me to somehow UNDO THE WHOLE FUCKING THING. So I storm off so I won't call him names. Meanwhile he's in there demanding help again because--surprise-- what he did got it stuck again. So I go in, somehow get it out and HERE JUST TAKE IT AND GET OUT OF MY WAY YOU INSUFFERABLE LITTLE SHIT

I didn't say the last part.

This was after the pizza restaurant incident-- because of course what you do 10 minutes after returning from lunch is start making your starving children more food.

It is 118 degrees today. We arrive at pizza restaurant. Kids spend so long fucking around looking for toys in the car that my feet start to get hot through my shoes because pavement. We go in and U says it's too loud. Drops toy, helpful waiter hands it to him, U becomes upset because someone is talking to him, scowls and wants me to throw it on the floor again. I drop it in an out of the way place near our table. Not good enough. He wants me to throw it under the neighboring table again (where people are eating). I refuse to throw it, I take it away so he won't throw it, much fuss ensues. E wants to nurse. I leave J with the U shitshow and go do that. When I come back, U has moved on to crying at Q because she is playing with his toy (which he hadn't been playing with until she was using it). I haul him outside to the 118 degree patio and try to hold him until he calms down. U never calms down. Eventually Q is done with all. "She's done with it now," I say. "NOOOO!!! Make her play with it again!!! I want to fight with her!!!"

No shit, he really said that.

So we go back in because lunch is there. Yay lunch! Except then he decides he wants his pizza with no sauce. And no cheese. We spend a ridiculous amount of time asking him why the fuck it suddenly matters when he has literally never expressed this preference before, trying to figure out what the fuck it is he actually wants to eat, offering him crust, offering him pizza without sauce and cheese. Meanwhile I am just shoving pizza in my face, wiling it to all be over. E spills his water twice.

Finally I take the boys out to the car. I walk down the steps. He yells at me because he wanted to be the first down the steps. He wants me to come back up and do it again. 118 degrees. Full sunlight. I do not do it. Fortunately he cooperates this time and we go to car, where more stupid farting around in fucking searing heat occurs.

When we get home, he doesn't want to get out of the car. It ends in crying.

Now he has had his popsicle. I am laying on bed typing this intermittently with staring into space trying to self-regulate. He comes in and start jumping around. He knees me in the back. He touches my hair. He jumps over me. He jumps over me. He steps over me. He jumps over me and trips on me. Every jolt from the jump and every unexpected touch is like a shock to my brain that makes me cringe EVER so briefly.

This kid.

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