I’m A Mess.

My baby starts her senior year of high school in 13 days. The triplets start full-day kindergarten in 12 days. Baby dumplin’ is starting to look more like a 2 year old instead of a baby. dang it. I start part-time college in 16 days. I’m a wreck. My stomach is a wreck.  My lips are a wreck. The voices in my head are a wreck. All 17 of them.

As the days meander along, I am aware that I am beginning to demonstrate moderate to severe neurotic behavior that is noticeably gaining intensity by the minute.<—A smidgen overly dramatic but pretty much  accurate by my assessment.

Now would be a super great time to buy up some stock in Chapstick, Tums and Prevacid.

For example:
Around 9 o’clock  last night,  I ventured out to the deep darkness of the cool summer night because the pool needed to be super-duper shocked.

It’s really entitled “Super-Shock.” I like to add in the “duper” just for fun.

And this little guy right here….

the frog…not the little guy who is attached to the little finger…was BACK in the pool last night.

I say BACK in the pool because I rescued him earlier this afternoon.  And the day before that. And the one right before that, as well.

Just call me the frog whisperer.

What’s the gosh darn cotton pickin’ problem, you ask? Well, I can’t handle having a frog death on my hands right now. Not in my particularly fragile and vulnerable state of neurosis. <—-Slightly overly dramatic right here.

So yes, I trekked further back into the deep dark woods in my bare feet to where the electrical box is situated, turned on the pool light, and spent 20 minutes desperately trying to rescue little Mr. Garden frog who desperately did not want to be rescued, all so that I could enjoy a guilt free slumber tonight.  I could not, should not, would not–possibly have slept a wink knowing that I had super-duper shocked and chlorinated a frog to death. Nope. Can’t do it. Nor could I leave the flailing moths and crickets flapping for their lives in 30,000 gallons of water. Scooped out with the net. Each and every one of ‘em. Dang it.

As it is, I am up at all hours of the night and day since the hyped state of my being kicked in. For instance, I am up blogging right now. Whereas I could, should, would be sleeping—like the rest of the entire tribal members—but my stomach is on fire. Visions of the big yellow bus, lost backpacks, chewed erasers, terrified triplets, University maps with missing buildings and classrooms the size of cathedrals. You know how it is….

So if while perusing any of the various social media networks that I actively participate, you notice I am demonstrating worrisome behaviors, don’t be alarmed. I am completely and totally aware of my neurosis at hand.

I just have no remedy for it. I’ve been running and doing jumping jacks with Jillian to try and “be still” the destructive voices in my head, but it only keeps them at bay for so long. Please just be patient with me as I twitter and  tweet, facebook and blog my way through this life changing time of serious crisis. <—-Overly dramatic. I know.

You also need not bring to my attention that I am most likely over dramatizing a few details regarding the upcoming life altering events. Of this I am aware and have tried to duly note. But everything feels overly dramatic right now. Specifically– gastrointestinally speaking. <—Just keeping it real.

So today,  I am going to hang out with my Sangria Sister, Sunday, the brilliant author of  Adventures In Extreme Parenthood.

We are spending some time at the Spa. You know, as physical and emotional, over dramatization and neurosis therapy. She’s not any one or any of these things. She’s awesome. She is simply willing to overlook all my issues, ignore my obvious weaknesses, and bring me brand new packs of chapstick. She’s a true friend. We both deserve this day at the Spa. Me for my pathetic neurosis. Her for her awesomeness. In fact, if you want to read a blog with less voices, someone with more mental stability, you might want to take a break over here and hang out over there, with her. <—-Please don’t leave me.

So we will be at the Spa rejuvenating our mental and physical health. It’s necessary.

I mean—just look at me, will you? Does my skin look scaly and dehydrated to you?

And my nails? Good grief. It is so embarrassing. I need much more chapstick than I ever imagined.

Please send more.

Take this as a lesson in proper hydration and moisturizing, if you will. Learn from my mistakes, people. Let not my failures in life be in vain. <–Overly dramatic right there again.

Now I’m going to go make a list of all the first and middle names of all the kittens and puppies I am going to adopt. [Just nod your head and smile.]

I’ll be hydrating at the Spa if you need me.

~The Grasshoppa

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