I'm No Goddamned Donna Reed, Okay?!

It was brought to my attention this evening that the way I speak to my kids could be considered cold and uncaring, which are characteristics not new to me. Case in point:

I come home, Lady Estrogen has me by the throat and I'm two seconds from throwing up the three crackers I was able to swallow for lunch. I've barely crossed the threshold. And here comes N. with some random paper in her hand ready to tell me her life story for the umpteenth time. As if I didn't give birth to her and already know it. What was I to do?

I've already told this child, and her sister, that when I come home from work or wherever, I need 15 minutes of silence. I need to hang up my coat, take of my shoes, dump my mail and purse on the table, let my hair down from the tight ass bun I rock almost everyday. I need to touch base with the nanny and see how the evening went. Just 15 lousy minutes.

I ask you- is that too much to hope for? 15 minutes without having to deal with whatever asinine topic N. has decided is the most important topic in the world at that moment? I mean, I love her and all, as much as I'm able to love anyone given my Jaded limitations, but DAMN! Give me a freakin' break!

So naturally I interrupted her with my usual putting up of THE HAND, giving of THE FACE, and saying, "N., please, can you let me get inside first?"

Then this certain someone who I'm on the phone with (and really hates when I refer to them in my blog, HA!!) is all like, "whatever happened to 'hi, I'm home and so happy to see you' BLAH BLAH BLAH..." You know what happened to it? My ex got it in the divorce, that's what happened to it.

Now stop telling me how to raise my damn kids!!

*smooches...only a little sorry that I let Lady Estrogen write this post...*
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seriously, though,
is there an operation
that will rid me of
this freakin' pain
and nausea
once and for all??