CBA

CBA. The best British phrase I have picked up, the only one I use with full enthusiasm and with my own free will. Can’t Be Asked (Arsed?). I love it.

Today I totally feel CBA. This is the fourth weekend in a row my husband isn’t home. Tomorrow starts half-term, a week off school for the kids. Kinda like spring break, but there are a fecking million half-terms. I. Am. Tired.

I am tired of doing all the running around 7 days a week. 33 days in a row I have taken the kids to school and back, brought in forgotten items, went swimming 4 times, taken to friends houses, went to running club, Eco club, golf lessons, trips to Legoland, a hand full of birthday parties, all the madressa runs, and had two kids off school sick for good measure.

My poor mom keeps saying she wishes we were closer so she could help. Nothing like 3,000+ miles of guilt. Thanks, mom.

It’s Sunday night, 7pm and I have run out of will power to cook, clean, and be calm. I just can’t be asked any more. I need help. But, woe is me, no one can help me. My laundry pile is out of control and what I did wash (ssshhh, 2 weeks ago) is still sitting in the office waiting to be put away. I refuse to feel guilty about the amount of take out we have eaten. Somehow in the middle of not cooking anything since Wednesday my dishwasher is full of clean dishes and my sink is full of dirty ones. How?!! Why?!!

It’s times like this I wish I was in Michigan so I could drop off the kids at my parents house, get my house in order, and just clear my head.

Instead I will put everyone to bed now and pretend I have my shit together.

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