I mean, do you really want to read about how Cubby and Charlie keep rubber-banding pens and pencils all over their supposedly cuddly stuffed animals to make Battle Puppy and Battle Sheep? And then I have to confiscate all the pointy writing implements before Jack rams them through his cheeks or something during his speed-crawling?
Or how sick I am of yelling, "IT'S NOT A COMPETITION!" to every damn thing that Cubby and Charlie make into a competition? Which is everything. (Seriously. How many buttons are on their shirts? Does one have more than the other? It's a competition. SERIOUSLY.)
Or how I forced myself to make yogurt yesterday even though I was really tired and didn't want to because I knew I needed to make laundry soap today and I use the same pot for both things?
Or how at the moment I have two freezers stuffed full of venison and beef, but I'm getting pretty burned out on red meat? And yet have very little energy or desire to drive all the way to the grocery store to get an alternative, which won't be that great, anyway, because grocery store meat never is and it seems that all I ever cook is meat?
Or how I think kale chips are vastly overrated?
Or how Jack is turning one next week and the best party I could come up with was basically a glorified playdate with two other mothers and their kids, at which I will hand out cupcakes and we'll sing Happy Birthday, but A. and the MiL won't be there because I have to do it during the day because having a birthday a week before Christmas means there is WAY too much going on? And I feel sort of guilty about this, because I myself am a third child with a birthday right around Christmas and I know how much it sucks. (Not that he'll remember anything about it, but this is all about me, remember?)
Or how tired I am of being tired?
See? Just not that interesting. And yet, I still typed it all out. Because it's all I got.