When The Peanut and I picked JJ up, he threw a huge shitfit. Screaming, stomping, carrying on: “I don’t want to go home! I want to stay here forever! I’m not leaving! I’m so angry, I’m turning into a bad guy!” The preschool director came over and pronounced solemnly, “I think he’s very tired.” Um, no shit. If I hadn’t had The Peanut in the sling, I would have hauled him out of there so fast his ass would have been smoking. As I was trying to calm JJ down, another mother came over and told me I was on the verge of poking The Peanut’s eye out with a stick I was holding because JJ wanted to bring it home. I know this woman was just trying to save The Peanut from being blinded, but I kind of wanted to slap her.
Not my shining-est parenting hour, that’s for goddamn sure.
Since we got home, both children have been behaving like lunatics. Screaming, crying, clinging to me, squabbling with each other, driving me to drink. I realize they’re both overtired and overwhelmed by the new routine, but Jesus Christ, someone please come get them. Now.
I think I hate preschool.