A sad cupcake is still a cupcake

And I thought I wouldn't be able to find a Sad Cupcake picture. On etsy.

I'd like to be able to say that my absence lately is due to something awesome. I was riding down the Amazon on a crocodile named Steve, or finally embarking on that hot air balloon tour of the Northwest Territory. But, no.

In truth, I have just been sad, and when I'm feeling sad, I find it hard to write anything I want to share with anybody.

I won't bore you or publicize family stuff in this space. It's the kind of stuff that happens in life sometimes, just lots of it all at once. My immediate family is actually in a very good place right now, which should make me feel better, but because I'm me, tends to add a thick, fuzzy layer of frosted guilt on my Sad Cupcake. I'm having trouble enjoying the things that make my life good because of the stress and sadness going on in the lives of various other people I love. And in typical WASP-like fashion, 79% of what's happening isn't even being discussed. I'm about to round all these people up and hold a Fight Club in my basement.

Anyway. Enough cryptic stuff. I'm pretty sure the Internet will topple over on its side soon if the continuous influx of emo bullshit doesn't slow down at some point. More cigar-smoking kittens! Less whiny suburbanites!

I'm working very hard to morph from Sad Sarah to Somewhat Morose Sarah, and part of that is breaking through my writer's block of gloom and doom. So expect some weird shit here in the coming days. It's my coping mechanism and I'm dragging you along for the ride. Thank you for sitting shotgun and not berating me about all those stop signs I'm blowing past. Yes, we can put the top down, but I draw the line at travel bingo. We all know travel bingo sucks.

I will leave you with a happy picture from the past few weeks. My oldest son is officially on the cusp of being a "big kid," having turned SIX over the weekend. He is pure love and his smile gives me perspective on a daily basis. It's pretty funny - when he was a baby, we'd have to actually "chomp"* on his side to get so much as a smile out of this kid, and now his entire face lights up with complete joy when he is moved by happiness. Happy birthday, little one.

The freshly minted 6-year-old who kept assuring me his birthday party was the best day EVER.

How did this little guy become a KID?

*In this case, the quotes indicate that we did not actually chew on our child. Yes, I know it's not even funny to joke about things like this, what with all the zombie crimes happening lately. Also, braaaaains.

How not to wake up on a Monday morning

This cloud understands my pain. On etsy.

Despite a fitful night, I wake up refreshed and ready to face the world anyway this fine Monday morning. Birds are chirping, two happy children are frolicking about, a small house cat is sunning itself on the floor where the morning sunshine spills in from my bright yard. We all smile knowingly at each other. "Spring. Lovely, lovely Springtime," we say without having to speak, the wordless acknowledgement of a world where everything is fresh and new again passing through our bright, eager eyes.

Or not.

It may have looked more like this:

After a fitful night, in which I thrashed around angrily most of the time, kicking off covers and stomping out to the thermostat repeatedly to try to find some kind of temperature that would magically allow me to finally fall asleep, I wake up when the dump truck apparently rolls off, leaving me behind in throbbing pain from tip to toe, and with an unidentifiable shrieking sound pounding insistently into the core of my being like a hammer with a hit list (get it? HIT list? it's a hammer, which hits things, and it's also trying to kill me, theoretically, in this extended metaphor, like a hired killer might be wont to do).

Against my better judgment, I pry open one eye halfway and peer around the still slightly dark room. What freaking time is it? Are you serious? I have been asleep for 2 hours. The 3-year-old creature spots the white of my eye instantly.

"Mommymommymommymommymommymommymommy!!!!!!!" it shrieks.

Why is this happening? Why does everything hurt so much? Where is my servant with the tea? I don't want to be an adult today. OK, ever. Whose idea was it to have these children?

"MOooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooomEEEE!" It is only getting louder. 

I take one of those deep, cleansing breaths that allow you to better communicate with another human being who is apparently trying to pierce your eardrum, and who really has very little concern for the fact that your brain is pulsing against your skull in rhythm with your pounding heart.

"What. is. it. David?" I manage to get out, realizing with gleeful surprise, as I voice my first words of this fresh new day, that my throat has undergone some kind of L.A.-style chemical peel in the night.

"I need you to carry me."

"No."

"Mom.ME. I need you to CARRY me."

"No. You are a big boy."

Much shrieking ensues and I finally drag myself out of the bed, disturbing Sniff the Cat, who glares at me and rolls over toward the wall. Yeah, screw you, too, cat. At least you get to stay in bed. Damn. I am in a foul mood this morning. Fear me, mortals.

"OK. What is it, David? Why do you want me to carry you?"

"I want you to carry me to the potty while you pee!"

"What?"

"While you PEE!"

"Are you serious right now?"

"WHILE YOU PEE!!!" Shrieking. Sobbing.

For whatever reason, this last bit is my fury trigger. It is all I can do to not instantly sprout arm muscles the size of VW Vanagons and bust through my pajamas and then rage around the house breaking shit indiscriminately.

I don't handle things well when I'm sick.

Wordlessly, I pick him up and haul him to the bathroom because I do have to pee now, and after birthing two children, now means now. I'm way too fresh off a terrible night's sleep to contemplate fighting it at this point. Why he needs to accompany me, I have no idea. Has he been trained like the dog and realized I was still in bed instead of making him eggs at exactly 8:13 a.m.?

He sits on the side of the tub and watches me pee, shaking with leftover sobs, staring up at me woefully, utterly crushed by my cruel, unsympathetic nature.

"Where is your brother, anyway?" I ask.

"Anda is throw up in his potty."

"David! That is important information! You need to tell mommy stuff like that."

More sobbing. "I want to have WATER! Make some water in the kitchen!"

I rush across the house to poor Anderson, who has fashioned himself a makeshift bed in front of his toilet on top of three beach towels, his stuffed bobcat playing the role of misshapen pillow.

"Oh, hi, mommy," he says cheerfully, leaning up on one arm and then collapsing again.

"Um, hi, buddy. Are you ok?"

"Oh, yes. I threw up SIX times! Well, seven minus 2 times. FIVE times!"

David continues sobbing. Now it's something about how he wanted the red cup of water and I gave him the wrong cup and now he will never grow up to be a fashion designer or even a surgeon, and he hopes I remember this moment because it's going to come out when he writes his first tell-all about his terrible childhood of neglect.

Anderson dry heaves in response.

I close my eyes and rub my temples, mentally calculating how many Advil it's going to take to allow me to continue living past 10 a.m.*

And thus begins our week. Tune in later to see what happens next!

Will mommy wind up in a)a mental institution, b)jail, or c)bed, ever again?

*The answer is 4. 4 Advil and three large cups of tea.