I just wanted some peace and quiet.

Note: This post was scheduled to publish later, and instead it published right away, and ended up in people's feeds. As we all know from my last post, I have no idea what I am doing, even with Blogger, which was designed for people who don't know what the hell they're doing. And yet, it still confounds me. I have no idea why it published, and no way to fix it, so I pulled the post till I could put it up manually.....LATER. But of course, THIS post is the one post that all of the sudden everyone loved and wanted to comment on. WTF?

So, back by popular demand -

Yeah, I should have been mopping the floors. Absolutely. It's been raining for weeks, the floors are filthy, and I should be cleaning them now that the kids are in bed. I know that, and yet.....I just wanted some peace and quiet. And some ice cream. I like ice cream with my peace and my quiet.

Don't judge me.

The kids were finally asleep. I had a documentary cued up on Netflix. I went to the kitchen for ice cream. Spoon, bowl, cookies and cream...it was all coming together. I dig into the carton, get a nice big scoop and oooooh look how many pieces of cookies are in that one ! "Good job" I think to myself. "That is a lovely scoop of ice cream, if I do say so myself." And right about then - right at that moment when I was admiring my lovely scoop of ice cream, it came loose from the ice cream in the carton and went flying. Onto the filthy dirty floor.

Fuck.

So I bend over, of course, and pick up that scoop of ice cream, and throw it in my bowl and stare at the hair that is now stuck to the side of this formerly epic scoop of deliciousness.

It will still be delicious. I just need to remove that hair. Oh, and the mud. There seems to be some mud, there, On the side. Where it hit the filthy dirty floor. Ah well, a little dirt won't hurt me.

"What are you doing Mama?"

Shit. Small voice. Little people are coming out of their rooms and I can see my dreams of a quiet night with a documentary melting right along with my hairy, muddy scoop of ice cream.

She comes around the corner and steps squarely into the small puddle of ice cream there. From where my formerly perfect scoop of ice cream landed when I threw it on the filthy dirty floor by accident.

"Oh, I stepped in something."

Shit. Fuck. This is not going well.

"What are you eating, Mama? Is that ice cream? MY ice cream? Why are you eating MY ice cream that I picked out? You picked out ice cream for you, and I picked out ice cream for me, and you are eating MY ice cream. Why aren't you eating YOUR ice cream?"

Because I ate that ice cream last night, I thnk to myself. But I don't say it. I do the natural thing. The only thing I could do.

"Daddy ate all my ice cream, honey."

So we clean up the floor and change pajamas, and use the potty one more time and I promise to buy her more ice cream and then she climbs back in bed and I return to my bowl of what used to be the most perfect scoop of ice cream in the whole world and is now just a puddle of melted ice cream, with some hair and mud swirled in it.

Netflix is frozen, my internet explorer has stopped working, I have to restart the computer and now I am wishing I had just eaten a cookie and mopped the god damned floor like I had originally planned.

Instead, I eat the entire can of whipped cream - sprayed directly into my mouth - and pass out on the bed with the New York Times magazine. Because all I really wanted was a little peace and quiet.