I just got a call from the school clinic.
"Middle Child has stepped in dog poop. Can you please come and bring him a clean pair of sneakers?"
I. Um. Well, here is the thing: I started to write a very complain-y post about the many ways in which my life is sucking at the moment, and then decided not to because a) troll-bait and b) it contained some things I hadn't talked to people in my life about face to face, and I don't feel like that's fair, but the abridged version is that LIFE SUCKS, STILL, OR POSSIBLY AGAIN, SOME MORE and THEN I got a phone call from the fucking school clinic informing me that my child stepped in dog shit, and getting snide with me when, after ascertaining that there was not shit on his sock or anything, I suggested sending him outside to shuffle around on the grass.
I really wasn't trying to be a bitch to the school clinician, who I am sure is not enjoying this situation on her end, but here is the thing: we're poor. My kid only owns one pair of shoes. NOBODY in this house owns more than one pair of shoes except for me, because I have special work shoes that one of my jobs requires us to get from a specific vendor. And if it's a matter of the school clinician sending the kid outside to shuffle his feet around in the grass or me interrupting my day to come and TAKE the kid outside to shuffle his feet around in the grass, I think she ought to do it.
WHAT IF I WAS AT WORK? I'm not, yet, but am I being unreasonable in thinking it is patently motherfucking ridiculous for the school to call me about this?
It's kind of a giant metaphor for my life at the moment: much ado about dog-doo.
I've told Hotter that if the clinician calls me back about this he is going to have to answer the phone, because I just don't think I am capable of having another civil adult conversation about dog shit today. I didn't know I had a limit on that, but there it is, I've reached it. ONE.