Day 9 (and FINAL!) day of Thanksgiving break.
Unfortunately for all involved, Mr. Yoy has only been off of work Thursday and Friday.
The Yoys and I have had intense togetherness over the past week. At one point, we hadn't left the house in 48 hours due to cold temperatures.
MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. MOMMY. MOM. MRS. YOY. LADY IN THE KITCHEN. CRYING INTO HER COKE. FEED ME. NOW. MOM. MOM. MOMMY. PLEASE.
I've grown accustomed to having eight glorious hours to myself each day. I'll admit, I'm spoiled. And I wasn't ready to give that up.
So as I sit here in the dark, writing, shell-shocked from the past week, I look back at my parenting decisions and shake my head in shame. I didn't bring my A game. I didn't bring any game.
I dug deep to make it through bed time tonight. Mr. Yoy left for the office around ten. The plan was to have dinner together. In my fantasy, he'd also put the boys to bed while I rocked in the fetal position on our unmade bed. That didn't happen. He's still at work.
As I ran the bath water, the Yoys invented a farting noise game. Both intriguing and stimulating, I know. This is what nasty little boys do, for all my friends with daughters.
They kept sticking out their little tongues and making the fart noise over and over again. They laughed with hysteria as they bathed the bonus room in their saliva.
THE NEXT YOYSER TO MAKE THAT NOISE LOSES THEIR TONGUE.
Well played, Mrs. Yoy. I just threatened to cut my kids' tongues out of their mouths. That seems logical. And totally in control of the situation. Also, note to self, take it easy on the Hunger Games movies.
Some positive takeaways from the week:
1) Everyone is alive.
2) Baths sometimes happened.
3) Food was provided.
Tomorrow morning I will give the bus driver the biggest hello hug of her life.
Good night, friends!
Normally there is a no jumping on furniture rule. Today we played a game to see how far Big E could jump. He almost bounced off my beloved ottoman right into the fire place. I didn't even flinch.
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