Waaaaah. Waaaaah .
This morning at an ungodly early hour, I awoke to the music of my twins scream-singing a not highly melodic duet of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” As I lay in bed trying urgently to fall back asleep( hahahahaha, as if ), I started scrolling through my phone and saw this headline, “Exclusive: Trump says he made being chairwoman would be simpler than his old life.”
Damn. I detect you, my dude.
The newest supervisor of the free world complained to Reuters about his first 100 eras in part speaking, “This is more work than in my previous life. I thought it would be easier.” Riiiiight? I imply I yielded birth to twins almost exactly two years ago and hooboy, this occupation is intense . Why didn’t anyone tell me how much work it was to keep an part house alive for 24 hours every day of the year?
Like our chairwoman, who now sorrows how little privacy he’s rendered and how he’s trailed forever by the Secret services, I have found that my life is pretty much over. I havent gone to the shower without the watchful eyes of my toddlers on me in I dont even recollect how long. I don’t have any time to obsessively Google my own specify, and I have to move proposals ahead of occasion each time I want to leave the kids alone. It’s exhausting!
If merely Donald J. Trump and I had known that becoming the Commander-in-Chief( “of the worlds countries” or private households) would imply speaking goodbye to our personal lives. Instead of sleeping peacefully well past sunrise, I now have to answer to the rumbling announces of my offspring at 3 a.m. Only as he used to be able to tweet incoherently in the middle of the nighttime instead of having to deal with all the pesky exertion of ensuring our nuclear eradication. Thumbs down, acces down.
Trump complains of being in his “own little cocoon, ” and I feel. I actually do. Concede his illusion is filled with golf courses, lavish snacks with powerful managers, chocolate cake, and limitless Cokes on requirement. Mine has is becoming more of a cocoon overflowing with soiled diapers, spit-up immersed invests, and crumbs of strange ancestry. But it’s mostly the same.
If I had any project how many relinquishes would be required, I might have made longer and harder about going through the two years of suffering fertility therapy I needed to conceive my kids. And perhaps he’d have re-thought that entire safarus thought. But, like, how on Dirt were we supposed to know !?
I mean, penalty, perhaps if I had read a single record about motherhood or a few of the thousands of articles online about what was involved in fostering kids or even talked to one other person who’d done this before, I might have figured out that it was the most intense gig on the planet.
But how could I be expected to pay attention to happenings like that when I was so busy paying attention to myself?