OMG

Blogger... just. Ack. Blogger fucking sucks, BIGTIME.

Spent so much time writing entry.

And. Lost. It.

The entire fucking entry. (Note to self: stop using the word fuck so much. It's unladylike).

So annoyed. And the bad thing is that is what I was writing about, my annoyance from last week and how peeved I was at mankind, er, dadkind. Right now I'm of the opinion that they aren't worth crap. (Okay so I am always of that opinion, but still...) It bothers me that some baby daddies *read: my babies' daddy* get off so damned easy when it comes to parenting. And I realize, yes, that this isn't limited to single moms. Hell there are married women with the exact same gripe. Dads just don't pull their weight when it comes to taking care of the kids.

Case in point: Thurday night we attended the orientation at our 5 year olds school. Upon entering the auditorium there are tables stacked with folders, organized according to grade and last name, chock full of paperwork for the parents to fill out. He picked up the folder for our kid and took a seat.

And that, my friends, sums up his contribution for the evening.

Jaalyn was hyper as hell, eager to run amok like her other rambunctious classmates and also proud of her big sisterdom and wanted to show off. Needless to say she was off the fucking wall (damn, not supposed to say fuck am I?). So I'm trying to reign her in and juggle Trinity on my shoulder and go through the mass of paperwork in the folder (who's idea was it to create so many damned forms? You think she was entering a foreign exchange program overseas, not kindergarten) and I'm visibly struggling not just with patience, but with the wiggly infant who decides hey let's see just how loudly my voice can echo inside a room with cathedral ceilings and the papers that are sliding out of the folder, off my lap and onto the floor only to be trod upon by Jaalyn who thinks that now is the perfect time for a great impression of Riverdance. And seated beside me is baby daddy who neither offers a hand, a pen, a tranquilizer gun... nothing.

I'm like would it kill you to offer to fill out a form?

Do I have to ask you (three times but who's counting) for a pen when obviously I am going to need one you fucktard.

Did he offer to take the baby so I can fill out the forms (the Enron executive defense teams filled out less paperwork, my God)? No.

So there I sit, perched on the edge of the horrid metal chair, baby nestled in the crook of my left arm, bottle chunked in her mouth held in place by my chin, folder resting precariously on right knee held in place by my right hand as I attempt to write legibly on my "Sure- go-ahead-and-check-my-credit-and-background-from-the-time-of-my-conception-til-now-Volunteer-form" that NO I haven't commited a crime of any nature unless you count the homicide I'm about to commit in the next 10 seconds to the clueless fucking moron seated right beside me who dared to get huffy with me when I dared ask him his goddamned street address.

But I digress (not that there isn't more to this tale). My point is that although I'm controlling by nature, sometimes I'd like a little help every once in a while. A little courtesy. I'm beginning to wish I could be dad for a change you know? Let my responsibility and worries end with the check I drop off each month, come by once or twice a week for an hour or so to play with the kids and then go off and do my own thing; or complain to the tired, overwrought baby mama who just spent the last 9 weeks being shit on, peed on, spit up upon, pulled on, and scratched - the same woman that can't even go to the bathroom by herself, let alone take a shower every couple of days, or eat a meal with out a moray eel of an infant hanging on her every second of the day - that I'm not getting enough "me" time.

And yes, he did actually make that statement over dinner (that he was able to eat hot, I ate mine cold once he finished but that's beside the point, no?). And yes he was rewarded with an incredulous stare from me. HE gets no "me" time??? He's involved in two flag football leagues, a softball league, goes to the gym, has no one to care for daily except himself, can nap, shit, eat, read, whatever without a care in the world...

But has no time to himself.

This is why I will never, ever own a gun. When faced with people like that... ooh the temptation... Instead I solace myself with the fact that I may not get an ounce of "me" time but I get something far greater.


But, what I wouldn't do for a grilled steak served with a chilled glass of merlot, a good book and some peace and quiet once in a while.