Schmuckish

Today I feel sluggish.

Exhausted.

Lazy.

Schmuckish. 

I don’t know if Schmuckish is a word. It reminds me of the jam. I feel like a preservative spread a little too thin and pouring out the bottom of a sandwich.

The kids fight. One punches the other, who proceeds to reply with a kick. Before I know it, I am watching my children MMA brawl across what seems like every square inch of the house. I go to raise my voice, but don’t have it in me today. They scream, staring in my direction with little eyes filled with tears and anger. They demand I referee the situation.

I can only shrug my shoulders. I’m a parent. These are pajamas not pinstripes.

Going to the kitchen, I return with candy promising a piece for peace. Their grievances against each other wash away at the sight of sugar. Magical nougats of momentary calm.

As the hounds of Childrensville smack their hungry lips in anticipation, I hand over the chocolate before returning to my state of general schmuckishness.

I hate days like today. Maybe it’s the weather. The lack of sleep. Work grind around the holiday. A thousand little reasons to not be up to it today.

The peace treaty lasts as long as the candy fills their mouths. They’ve found something else to bicker over. In my current blahness I cant even keep up with it. Someone wants to sing I think. But they want to sing alone or something. I don’t know.

They turn to me again. It’s just one of those days. They are at each other’s throats over and over.

And over.

And over.

And over.

I anxiously check the time. On normal days, it doesn’t feel like a job. We laugh. We fight. We redirect to more laughter. We get along well enough and some days even nap.

Maybe it’s the humidity. The rain clouds keeping us inside. The lack of stimulation. The lack of naps.

Today feels like a full shift. A chore. A job with shitty pay.

With all my clock gazing, I barely have a chance to catch sight of the bare-assed child running down the hall. He turns and smiles, before resuming his sprint away from the impending trouble. Sure enough, he’s running from his problems. Well, my problem now. A puddle in the kitchen. Fresh, clean, diaper laying only a few feet away.

Potty training is going swell.

Perhaps some coffee will perk me out of the rut. The stimulus.

I need thirty cups. Or a bump.

It’s days like today. They test you. Break you down. The beginning of a rut, teetering you on edge ready to snowball down.

My kids swarm me with hugs. Hugs turn into chokes. I am now the victim of toddler gang violence as they laugh on in delight. A butt bounces on my head. Feet stomp my privates like they’re trying to put out a fire. Hands come crashing down, smacking me again and again in the belly.

The Schmuckish playscape brings joy to the kids for a good half hour. I’ve grown so used to it. I lay there wondering if a thirty pound toddler can give you a concussion with his butt. Happy my days of having children are over so I don’t need the crushed nuts.

The children, seemingly high off the Wrestlemania practice session, hop away in search of more trouble. Picking myself up, I stare at the time. The half hour of being a victim to toddler brutality was actually only five minutes.

It’s a long day and it’s only getting longer with every passing minute.

Do you have days that never seem to end? Where parenting seems downright impossible? Are you Schmuckish?

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