There Is No Hell Like Kiddie Hell

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I try it, everytime. Everytime, I wind up wanting to break the little monsters in half. And yes, I am referring to children.

I was so not cut out to be a teacher, baby-sitter, child care worker, balloon artist, clown, McDonalds playpen supervisor or anything else that involves locking me in a room with twelve children for two hours and shouting: GO!

And yes, I did all of the above today, minus the whole McDonalds thing. Everytime I talk myself into doing something child related I am all "I totally love kids, right? Because I like HAVE to since I want to be a Mom... someday! In a country where you have nanny's, housekeepers and surrogate mothers!" And then, after three point seven seconds, reality sets in. I start snapping out orders like it is the military. Which, it is. Dammit! You are in the Army of Porkchop. You had better stand at goddamn attention, be pretty goddamn quiet and GODDAMIT stop running your hands down the full-length mirror creating that GODDAMN noise.

Four hours.

Four. Very. Long. Hours.

Who in their right mind gives their three year olds MODELING lessons? Do they not realize this is seriously overpriced baby-sitting? Which involves me playing Model Duck Duck Goose and Model Musical Chairs? Both games are as horrific and cheesy as they sound.

At more than one point today, I had a little girl in a full nelson. THE KID WAS TRYING TO SCRATCH MY EYES OUT. At more than one point today, I found myself trying to remove tennis rackets and baseball bats from the paws of these little angels to prevent permanent damage. At more than one point today, I found myself saying "What the hell! Beat each other with the things!" My assistant and I agreed the injuring, assessing of the injury and treatement of the injury should take up worthwhile and justifiable chunk of class time.

Right. And why do I try to convince myself I love children?

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This odd narrative is my life. I ended up in Pittsburgh, of all places--from the beach. I have no hobbies, other than cooking excessively and eating microwave popcorn. I enjoy shopping, the Food network, hiding the remote so the Food network cannot be turned off, find ethnic food stores and restaurants and reading voraciously. My life is decidedly pedestrian.

I worked in the car business where I was required to be ruthless and soul-less wench, which is when I started this project. Since then, I've kept it up because secretly, I've always wanted to join the military. Every male in my mother's family has joined and I quietly entertain thoughts of joining. I haven't yet and don't know if I ever will, but sending the troops cookies keeps me sane. it makes me think I still have a shred of human kindness left in my withering soul. it's a small way for me to salute the men and women who are brave enough to fight for freedom. And makes me feel like I'm contributing toward troop morale--even if I'm not. So if you want to help, send me addresses of troops you know stationed overseas. you may also contribute toward the cost of chocolate chips, but don't feel obligated, that link is here only by request.

the past


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