I Can Do This, I Can Do This, Wait! Can I?

Okay, Andi, just breathe.
You know how to do that, right?
But these kids are going to kill me, I swear.
Wait. No, they're not. They're just small people. Logic works.
No, it doesn't. They're incapable of reason.
Yes, they are. Just don't let them see you sweat. You're tough. You're strong. You've totally got this,

No. No, I don't.

It is after 10:00 PM. Little is supposed to be in bed by 8:30. But now Jack wants to sleep downstairs with us, thus Little is out of bed. Jack, in case you were wondering, is a massive stuffed bear that is actually bigger than Little. Little is four. He'll be five in about six weeks, thus the pile of kindergarten registration paperwork sitting in front of me, ominously reminding me that I need to get my butt in gear and get him registered or he'll never become an educated member of society. I'll do it tomorrow. For right now, I'm starting this blog while simultaneously doing laundry so I can have some clean clothes in the event that I have to leave the house tomorrow. (Read: in case I have to change out of yoga pants.) I'm also contemplating my failure as an adult. These children are breaking me.

Who am I? Well, I'm Andi/ Andrea/ Mom/ Mommy. I've spent most of my working years as a healthcare professional. Wanting a little more than this, because I'm slightly idiotic in nature, I went back to school and got a business degree. And when I figured that I didn't quite owe the Department of Ed enough money, I went back and got an MBA. Yep, according to a very fancy piece of paper, I am a Master, equipped to manage your corporation for you. My intent was that this would propel me into a high-powered career behind the glass walls that divide the hospital's administration from the rest of us working stiffs. What happened is something totally different.

I was working away while applying for leadership positions with that shiny new degree when it happened. Big hurt my shoulder. (Big, of course, being the other child in my use of the plural children.) Big is thirteen. My big, bad teenager, that one is. He plays football and wrestles. He's pretty awesome when you get over the general weirdness that comes from his Asperger's. It was during one of his meltdowns that my shoulder was injured. And the injury wasn't in the cute let's-use-this-ice-pack-and-rest-for-a-week way. It was more like a holy-shit-you-have-to-reconstruct-my-arm kind of way. As in, I now have six anchors in my shoulder holding my rotator cuff together, there have been entire sections of bone removed, and my biceps tendon isn't even in the same place anymore after the surgeon shortened it, drilled some holes, and put it somewhere else entirely. So they said I couldn't work. No, really they said I couldn't work for a long time. In fact, it has been over nine months since I worked a single day.

So then Hubs got hurt. I got a call from the ER one day--the ER where I once worked, and the nurses knew me. They're the ones who called me and told me that the dork fell fourteen feet through a ceiling and somehow only managed to sprain his ankle. But somehow that ended up being the worst sprain in the history of sprains, and his doctor actually looked at us and said these words: "Well, it's just sprained, but it is the worst sprain possible. And, unfortunately, it is the only sprain that requires surgery to heal." So Hubs was on crutches and I had my right arm in a sling and otherwise tethered to my body for four months. How cute, right? We were so figgin' fabulous.

And those kids of ours? They smelled weakness.
And totally ran with it.

In the meantime, Hubs escaped. He healed and went back to work and left me here alone with them.

I can tell you stories. In fact, that is my intention. Because the whole point of this is I can tell you these stories and you can't judge me. Well, okay, you can judge me, but I don't really care. Or maybe you will tsk-tsk me while in your head, you're silently saying, "I'm not the only one going crazy over children." Because I swear, these kids are awesome. They're adorable. They're amazing. But I swear they're out to kill me.

So here I am. And I am dealing with things like flooded bathrooms, drinking of maple syrup, attempts to burn the house down, chasing me with barbecue tongs while shouting inappropriate things, and other absurdities too numerous to mention.

At least ten times per day, I ask myself, "I got an MBA for THIS?"

Hang on. You'll understand, I promise.