In search of: A cliff. Preferably high off the ground, with large jagged rocks reaching out for me with their arm-like spikes, waiting patiently to bring me in for a warm hug at the bottom.
I’m dramatic and kiddingbutnotreally. It’s just been one of those days, guys. First, well, just look.
Those would be greasy, hot pink, chunky toddler handprints. Jack demolished some more of my beloved lipstick. Not only is it in the bathroom, but it also trickles down the hall and into our bedroom where it explodes into a something truly grand. Apparently, ladies and gentlemen, WE HAVE AN ARTIST.
Hey, Sir Artist. Would you mind explaining your work to your fans?
No? Oh, don’t be so humble! Really, WE ARE ALL ACHING TO UNDERSTAND.
Anyway, jolly good show. Can you imagine going to gather your children for your favorite time of the day — NAPS! MOM’S ONLY ALONE TIME EVER IN HER LIFE! — only to find that mess in your room? Then you have to give your children baths (yes, “children”, because, don’t think for one minute that Maddie wasn’t drawn like a moth to that hot-pink flame), where they will proceed to dump three gallons of dirty bathwater all over the floor.
Sir Artist is now asleep, probably dreaming up some inspiration for his next masterpiece. His understudy is supposed to be in her room, but has crept out quietly and is now hiding around the corner and peeking at me with one eye as I type this. And she’s not wearing pants.
This day is weird.
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